Tinted Gold
by 0-Kelly-0
Summary: I don’t like making eye contact with people, it’s too direct. He says I hide behind my goggles; I say the world looks much friendlier tinted with gold. The world as Matt sees it. The Wammy days and beyond. Matt x Mello Complete
1. Prologue: 00

There's something beautiful about knowing the exact moment you will die. There's a number, a strict limitation, written above my head with a name that was too rarely used.

Sometimes I wonder, if people knew exactly when they would die, how they would live their lives differently. Would the workaholic company man come home at four o'clock instead of eight, so he could eat dinner with his family? Would the housewife leave the laundry for another day to instead go shopping with her daughter? Would the people of the world still waste away, begging for the acceptance of a society that was too cold and uncaring to remember their name?

I know what will happen when I die. My time here will be remembered by an unmarked headstone. I am a sentence unfinished, trailing off into nothing and nowhere. No one will read my story and fondly remember—there is nothing of substance to my life, at least not in the eyes of the world. I will go on unremembered, largely regarded as another victim of circumstance.

He thinks I don't realize. That's a laugh, we're both geniuses, he should know better. Sometimes I think Mello really is blind; he has so much potential but his ambition makes him vulnerable. His passion makes him obsessive. His fervor makes him a force without direction, a natural disaster waiting to happen. Near is levelheaded, calculated and cool. Mello is his polar opposite. I am nothing but the one stuck in the middle, a friend to highest bidder, a geek with too much time and too little focus.

If he thinks I'll make it out alive he is an idealistic fool. If he thinks it's better not to tell me of my impending death than he is still a fool; an egotistical, self-serving one at that. He probably thinks I'll run away, bury myself in the electronic reality that I'm so fond of. I bet he thinks I'd be scared.

I am nothing like Mello. I guess you could say that he and I are polar opposites, although that would put me at the same place as Near and I prefer not to compare myself to him. Mello has a way of forcing himself on you—there's no way to avoid Mello if he wants you to listen. His gaze is penetrating, like he can see all the way through you and find out what makes you tick. His eyes are wild, blue like the sky, never really ending or beginning anywhere. I don't like making eye contact with people, it's too direct. He says I hide behind my goggles; I say the world looks much friendlier tinted with gold.

Mello is showy. He thrives on drawing every eye in the room; I don't have a problem with that, it means that many less eyes on me. Near once had the gall to tell me that I live in Mello's shadow. I told him that it was a pretty big shadow, and there was more than enough room for me to inhabit it. (Anyway you look at it, it seems, I'm hiding behind _something_. I'm not cowardly; I just prefer not to waste my time with needless social interaction.)

The limelight makes me uncomfortable, and I am happy to say that I never draw attention. No one finds the computer geek hunched of his Nintendo DS very intriguing; I never had a girlfriend, probably for that very reason. I never felt like I was missing anything.

Any implication that I am a part of the mafia is a laugh. I lack the serious motivation and effort it takes to hold grudges against people, and be underhanded on a large scale. Occasionally, however, I'll get a call asking for my expertise. I'm just, "That hacker Mello knows." Mello trusts me, usually, and he knows for sure that I won't double-cross him. That would take too much effort.

Another trait I carry that makes me useful is my lack of morals. The times that Mello has called me in, I'm paid handsomely for my work. It's never bothered me that I'm being paid for the destruction of another person's life. I don't ask questions, because why should it make a difference whose identity I just stole or which security system I just turned off? Crickets chirp where my conscience should lie.

I never said I was a good person. Actually, I'm quite the opposite. Mello repents for the lives he takes, and I know for a fact that every day the rosary around his neck gets a little heavier. I don't seek penance; I don't offer atonement. When I die—which is soon, I know—I won't see the Elysian Fields.

* * *

_AN: Thank you to everyone who took the time to read the first chapter of what I hope will be a rather lengthy, insightful story into the character of Matt. (Poor guy got hardly any screen time! He was just begging for someone to tell his story.) This is my first attempt at a Death Note fanfiction, and I hope I did the characters justice. Feedback is dreadfully needed, I appreciate reviews more than you know! I am also looking for a Beta reader at the moment, is anyone interested? If so, please feel free to mention so in your review, or drop me a private note. Thank you again for reading and reviewing!_


	2. 01

Being one of the infamous "Wammy Boys," I have a reputation to live up to. It's a pretty small pool when you consider the requirements: an orphaned genius, who conveniently ended up in England. Sometimes I wonder how they get so many children into that orphanage.

Pre-Wammy, I nearly got lost in the system—I like to affectionately call it the Orphaned Child Circuit. I have a way of being easily overlooked; I think it's a defense mechanism that I unknowingly employ; be small, be quiet, go unnoticed. I wasn't one of the loud, whiny children, begging for their dead or imprisoned parents, so no one really paid me much attention. I liked it better that way.

At age ten, I was grown up. I didn't need someone to look after me. I'd been fine up until that point; just because my parents weren't around anymore didn't mean that had changed. I'd already raised myself into adulthood before I reached puberty. The first orphanage I visited was just a cleaner, more crowded, noisier version of my old home. No one wanted to adopt an introverted preteen, not that I _wanted_ a replacement family, mind you, so I was stuck on the Circuit.

I wasn't very good at school, just another negative added to my already lacking personality. School required attention and a drive to succeed. I lacked both. When you're living with some thirty odd children, no one has the time to press you to do your homework. I did what was required in the orphanage and little more; I ate my meals when they were set in front of me, bathed regularly, and went to bed on time. (That didn't stop me from huddling under my blanket with my Gameboy, however.)

Going to school was like being force-fed molasses; it made me want to throw up, but I kept taking it 'for my own good.' It was perhaps the most monotonous, boring waste of my time imaginable. I got in trouble a countless number of times for trying to hide my Gameboy under my desk and play during class. Finally, outraged, my teacher confiscated it. I was furious.

In order to get it back, I had to attend a conference with the teacher and my social worker. They discussed my failures as if I wasn't even there; I didn't try to include myself in the conversation. The solution, they had somehow decided, was to take the game away from me. Perhaps then I would be able to focus more on my schoolwork.

That Gameboy was _mine_. Upon entering the orphanage, I brought two things with me: that Gameboy and my goggles. They wanted to confiscate my _property_. I had bought it myself, in all its used, garage sale glory. They had no right! I hadn't cried when my parents died. I cried about this.

They brushed off my tears like they were worthless, telling me that they _knew best_. They knew _nothing _about me! Nothing about anything! I was heartbroken. The one friend I had (yes, my Gameboy was my only companion,) had been ripped away from me.

I had a debt to settle then. I couldn't pay attention in class now, because that would give them gratification. They would think that they'd been right to take away my Gameboy. I was going to fail to spite them; this had become a game to me. I was going to win.

The director of the orphanage I was currently housed in had an office on the first floor. Among all the files he kept on each of the children, he had a library of books. While my social worker had taken my Gameboy to God knows where, I could easily access this wealth of information.

Since I lacked my distraction of choice, I had to make do with what was available. While other children my age were struggling through the Hardy Boys, I was acquainted with Homer, Shakespeare, Thoreau and Emerson. Oddly enough, I found that I enjoyed reading. It didn't hold a candle to videogames, but it was something at least.

My teacher caught me a few times, pulling the book out of my lap and inspecting it. "You don't honestly expect me to believe that you're reading A Tale of Two Cities." She exclaimed, exasperated. "Give me whatever you're playing with, now." The search came up empty handed, and she was forced to return my borrowed book, puzzled by the mystery.

Soon the director's library became too small for me. I knew when I started reading about child psychology that it was time to move on. The school library was something of a joke; it was for elementary school children, after all, and had nothing of interest for me. After school one day I had to venture out farther to find another book to devour. (The long ones usually only lasted me a week.)

The city library was bigger than the entire orphanage. It was so peaceful. No one pried into anyone else's business; everything was so private and quiet. People were reading, others clicking away on computers…I'd never liked a place more than I liked that library, except for maybe the arcade downtown.

I thought that they wouldn't let me get a library card. _I_ wouldn't have given me a library card, if I was them. Some ten year old kid walks in off the street wearing stripes like a proud prison convict and goggles like he's ready for a swim; would you let him borrow your books? But the librarian was friendly, asking me to fill out a little slip of paper and moments later I had a shiny plastic card in my hands.

I checked out six books that night, the maximum number you were allowed. I still missed my Gameboy dearly, but I had found a suitable enough replacement for the time being. In addition, I had made a discovery; there was a technology section of the library. Four of my six books were about computers—if I couldn't actually get on a computer or play my videogames, at least I could _read_ about them while I was at school.

I was at the library nearly every day. As long as I wasn't late for dinner, the orphanage didn't notice my absence. They had public computers there, which I took full advantage of. The librarian grew to like me, so even though you were only supposed to have the computer for half an hour, she let me stay on it for longer. I played pinball until the arrow keys were worn down on the keyboard and my name occupied every high score spot on each of the computers. It wasn't my Gameboy, but it was enough to get me by.

After being caught one too many times reading during class, I was forced to attend another conference with my teacher and social worker. It was impossible to confiscate my books, they soon discovered, because I'd just return the next day with a new one. Frustrated by my still lacking grades, my social worker suggested an aptitude test. Either I was just dumb, or bored because my classes were too easy. Glancing through a few of titles I had recently been reading, my social worker seemed to believe it was the latter.

I hated tests, I still do. Measuring knowledge and ability on a piece of paper is impossible. The reaches of the mind are far greater than that which can be shown on a simple test. I made bubble patterns, but still tested one grade level above where I currently was. It was frustrating how the two of them seemed to believe that this would solve all the problems and I'd suddenly be a star student once I moved up a grade.

Just swallow the molasses, and pray it will all be over soon.

* * *

_AN: I don't think most stories credit Matt with the intellect he so obviously has. Yes, he is a computer geek, and he loves his videogames. But being third at Wammy's to Near and Mello? That says something, you can't just be good with computers and get scores like that. (If he actually_ tried_, I wonder how far he could go...) Give the boy some credit, please. Once again, I hope I did him justice._

_So this is a bonus chapter, two in one day, wooh! Not only am I anxious to get this story on paper, but I wanted to prove that this wouldn't just turn into another rotting, unfinished story. Thank you so much to everyone who favorited and alerted this story. A special thanks to Miko, my first and only reviewer on chapter one! Everyone's support is really what will keep this thing running. Please, I cannot stress how much I appreciate reviews. They make me smile, and I'll update even faster. Thanks again guys, I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Expect another one soon!_


	3. 02

I was eleven when God intervened.

I was picking away at my dinner per the usual that night; I'd lost a lot of weight in just a year. They fed me well at the orphanage but I never had much of an appetite. As a result, I became lanky, and overall unattractive. My hair was dull, wild red and rarely brushed. Even if I did take the time to run a comb through it, the locks became mused by my goggle's strap and it was quickly in disarray again.

I was the last of the children in the dining hall that night. I'd been at the library late that day, but now my only choices of entertainment were going to bed early or reading. (I didn't even consider homework as an option. What's entertaining about that?) I wanted to save the books for school the next day, however; we were scheduled to watch a movie so I'd need them.

While I continued pushing my now cold food around my plate, one of the workers in the orphanage was busy wiping down the tables around me. The door that lead to the main hall opened, and in bustled one of the older women who worked as a liaison between the orphanage and the social workers.

"Casey," Said the older woman, seeming a bit frazzled. I listened with one ear while I kept my head tilted down towards my food. "The entire network just crashed! I lost all the files; you're good with computers, aren't you?"

They rushed out, leaving me alone with my sweet potato and my thoughts.

Usually I'm not one to give into curiosity. They would no doubt hire someone from tech support and the computers would be fixed by the next day. But it was too much temptation; it was practically calling out to me. This was my domain, no one was better with electronics than I was.

After lights out, I snuck from my bedroom downstairs to the director's office. I had become well acquainted with the lock; it was so amateurish a hairpin could open it, as I had proven countless times. The lights were off, but I had memorized the furniture arrangement and picked my way past the plush armchairs, bookcases and coffee table to the desk at the far end of the room.

The computer there was unplugged, I soon discovered with groping fingers, so I reconnected it to the wall and the computer lit up without prompting. Instead of booting up as normal, however, the screen was a solid blue with an error message. The keyboard and the mouse weren't working, and trying to restart the computer did nothing. The hard drive was corrupted, that was the only explanation. I had my work cut out for me.

There was no way for me to fix the computer without opening it up. I'd read about this, but never actually attempted to repair one myself. I used the light of the screen to see as I dismantled the tower, using a letter opener from the desk as a makeshift screwdriver. My nails were too short to peel it apart, I'd discovered, but the point on the letter opener was perfect.

I'd never been more at home than I was in front of that computer. Everything made sense. Everything had a place and a purpose. Something was broken, and I had the ability to fix it. It was like an orchestra at my fingertips, I was the conductor, and it was just begging for me to make a symphony. While I loved my videogames, they never posed a real challenge. This was the challenge I'd been looking for.

I didn't go back to bed that night. I worked into the wee hours of the morning, fiddling to my heart's content. Soon the computer was fixed, but I had to reinstall Windows. I checked to make sure that all the files had recovered okay, and they had, thankfully. Crisis averted, I continued to fix up the computer so it would run better. All the things I'd read about in books at the library but never had a chance to try! It was heaven.

Sometime around three in the morning, I dozed off. I was exhausted, but thought I'd just rest my eyes for a moment before continuing. I was having too much fun; I couldn't just go to bed now.

There was light streaming into the window when I woke dozily, sometime later. It wasn't the light that had roused me, but the noise coming from outside the oak door. There was quite a commotion, hurried footsteps and voices yelling back and forth. I didn't know what they were saying, but they sounded distressed. A glance at the desktop's clock told me it was 9:30, but the gravity of the situations hadn't quite sunken in yet.

I straightened, stretching, letting my back and neck pop. I was stiff from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position, but felt oddly well-rested. Then, I heard a click and froze. A key had been slipped into the lock on the door, but since it was already unlocked, it just jiggled around for a moment before the door was pushed open. My instincts screamed, "Run, hide!" but I couldn't make myself move, and remained rooted to the desk chair that I had made into my bed the night before.

I had never met the director personally, although I had envisioned him to be a pleasant man. I had been borrowing his books—although he lacked knowledge of this—and I had lulled myself into a false sense of friendship with him. (It made me feel less guilty that I was using his belongings, if I thought we were on good terms.)

I had seen him before, a large, imposing sort of man, but his face was usually gentle and good-natured. The gold name plate on his desk announced his name to be James Cartwright, although I always just thought of him as the director, the owner of the orphanage. Whenever I tried to put a name with his face, it just seemed wrong. James was too informal, yet Mr. Cartwright was too stringent for the familiarity I had falsely built up in my mind.

When he entered his office that morning, face lined with worry, he looked older than I had originally guessed. I was hit with the sudden realization that this man was _not_ my friend. He didn't know me, and I didn't know him. I had been stealing his books, and then giving them back when the opportunity presented itself. I had broken into his office and fixed his computer, and thus the entire network, without his permission. I felt criminal in that moment, and utterly alone and helpless to make the situation right.

It took him a moment to notice me, as I was rather small and not very noteworthy. His desk chair nearly swallowed me through pure force of willpower. He was puzzling over his keys when he entered, probably having noticed that the door wasn't locked as it usually was. He carried a briefcase, and I wondered vaguely what sorts of things he kept inside it.

When he looked up, his bushy eyebrows nearly disappeared under the cover of his shaggy hair. I slipped lower into the chair, praying to God that I would disappear. Instead of him right out yelling at me, he turned, went back towards the door and opened it again.

"Ms. Hamilton, I've found him." He called. I realized, belatedly, that the commotion was over _me_. I hadn't been in my bed this morning, and I hadn't gone to school. I never knew that they'd actually be worried if I went missing, but then I remembered that it was their job to look after me.

A younger woman rushed to the door, peeking inside to see me around the director. She sighed with relief, placing a hand over her heart. I sunk lower. (Please cushions, swallow me.) "Thank heavens!" She exclaimed. "Mr. Cartwright, I'll take him. He can still make it to school before lunch."

The director looked back at me, his expression calmer now. "No, thank you Ms. Hamilton, but I think I'd rather have a word with him." (Please, please swallow me.) He dismissed the young woman, and then shut the door again.

I waited, still frozen, as he went calmly to set his briefcase on the coffee table. There was a nice potted plant on the table that I'd never noticed before, and it was just starting to bud out. Was it Spring already?

"Mail," I cringed a little, as if he might hit me. Then he did something that threw me for a loop. He came over to the desk, offered me his hand like I was his equal and smiled. "I'm Mr. Cartwright. I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting yet."

I was almost dizzy, but took his hand and shook it weakly, avoiding meeting his gaze through the gold lens of my goggles. "What are you up to here?" He wanted to know after releasing my hand, voice still kind, gesturing to his computer with his chin.

"I heard that the computers weren't working," My voice sounded small compared to his. I hated confrontations. "So I…I fixed it."

I watched as the director's eyebrows raised again, seeming surprised. "Can you show me?" He requested, so I did. I remained in the desk chair while he stood above me, one hand on the desk, leaning over so he could see the screen as I explained the process I'd taken to fix the system. When I'd finished, he was silent for a moment, although his eyes were bright. "Mail, would you like to play a game on my computer?"

That had been the _last_ thing I was expecting him to say, but hesitantly I nodded. Still standing, he pointed to various links on the screen that lead me to what he'd been intending. "Tell me when you're finished." He said, before leaving me alone in front of the computer and going to the bookcase to pick out a book, and sitting down in one of the armchairs.

Perplexed, I started. It wasn't a game, really, more like a series of puzzles and questions. It was entertaining though, I'd never done something like it before and it was fun. It took me about an hour to finish, and I called him over. The screen read, "Your IQ: 196"

That meant very little to me at the time, but the director's mouth actually dropped open when he saw the score. He gathered himself, scratching the back of his head and just staring at the number for a moment. "Mail, why I don't you go to your room for a while, I need to make some phone calls." I was surprised that this had all gone over so well, and slid out of the chair to head for the door. "Wait, Mail," I paused, turning again.

The director pulled open the second drawer in his desk, pulling something lime green and rectangular out. He smiled, offering it to me. I felt my heart flutter, practically tripping over myself to get back to the desk and take my Gameboy from him. I cradled it in my hands like it was the Holy Grail, looking up at the director with wide eyes. "Thank you." I breathed, and ran out to bury myself in the videogames I'd missed so much.

* * *

_AN: Several quick notes about this chapter. If you weren't aware, any score on an IQ test over 180 is classified as "profoundly gifted," and you are considered a genius. (It is very, very rare to see scores this high.) I hope that the computer stuff wasn't too inaccurate, I couldn't really omit it because it was so important to this chapter. I have a friend who's a computer geek and he described a time that he fixed a computer where Windows was corrupted, and this was similar to what he did. Additionally, the director uses Matt's real first name. Why, you ask? At this point in the story, there would be no reason for him to be called Matt. I was hoping to make it as realistic as possible._

_Thank you to my reviewer with the evil laugh. You know who you are. (Only one review for chapter two, seriously? Ouch.)_

_I hope that you guys are enjoying the story so far, we will be introduced to Wammy's next! Since I am not above bribery, I will make you guys a deal: Any reviewer who requests it, will receive a sneak peek into the next chapter. (Please make sure private notes are enabled, and don't anonymously review!) Also, a cookie for your thoughts? I'd love some feedback guys! Thanks for the support!_


	4. 03

I'd never been on an airplane before. I always thought that people only went on planes to visit family or for business trips. Since neither applied to me, I had been firmly on the ground for the first eleven years of my life.

After the night I fixed the director's computer, he said that he would like to keep me out of school for the remainder of the week. I had no objections, staying out of school just meant I could play my Gameboy and read as usual, but I wouldn't have to go through the effort of hiding my activities.

My hopes of hassle free lounging for were dashed, however, when the director asked me to attend what he called a phone conference. If it was on the phone, couldn't I just stay in my room and talk there? But apparently he wanted me in his office, which meant it was impossible to play my Gameboy discreetly.

The director let me sit in his chair again, which I enjoyed, and he took a seat on the other side of the desk. I swiveled back and forth mindlessly in the chair while my hand skimmed over the keyboard—without actually pressing any of the keys—of the now fully functioning computer.

"Mail," He said, to get my attention. I heard him, but continued my ministrations. He sighed, and continued regardless. "You are an extremely bright young man, and I'd like you to be in an environment that better helps you reach your full potential. I don't think that this is the place for you to do that."

This caught my interest and I glanced up at him, goggles catching the glare coming in from the window. I was silent while I waited for him to continue, my hands now still.

Without prompting, he went on, "There's an orphanage in England that also serves as a boarding school." My nose scrunched up at this, but if the director noticed he didn't let on. "It's a very prestigious organization; they want you to take some tests—"

"There are requirements to get into an _orphanage_?" I interrupt him, appalled by the idea. "You know, other than not having parents? Isn't that kind of like asking a dog to do tricks in order to get into a shelter?"

"Mail…" The director said, face softening. "This is a great opportunity for you; you'll be around other children who are closer to your level. You could make some friends."

"I have friends!" I knew it wasn't true, and so did the director. Luckily, he didn't push it.

"Let's just talk to the owner. Then you can make a decision." He offered civilly enough.

Seeing no other choice, I just crossed my arms and waited. The director turned the phone around on the desk so it was facing away from me, and he dialed a number from a sticky note he'd placed there. He returned the phone to its cradle, and the ringing now filled the air. I felt oddly antsy, and shifted in the plush chair.

"Quillsh Wammy speaking," Said someone on the other end of the phone. The voice was rough with age and a little crackly, whether it was because of the connection or not I was unsure. There was a regal aura about the way Quillsh Wammy spoke, and I couldn't help but picture an old man with a golden walking cane and a goatee.

"Mr. Wammy," The director was talking now, I had no idea if was supposed to say anything so I kept quiet. "This is Mr. Cartwright; we talked on the phone earlier. I have Mail here with me today."

"Mr. Jeevas, is it?" Was the reply, after some shuffling of papers on the other end of the phone.

I swallowed, leaning forward a bit, not knowing how sensitive to noise the phone was. "Yes Sir," I replied, feeling as though his very tone commanded respect, although he didn't sound at all intimidating. Regardless, I was terrified. The unknowns were countless, and that bothered me.

"And are you interested in joining us at Wammy's House?"

I paused for a moment, hesitating. I tried not to look at the director's face, because I could tell that he was silently trying to encourage me and I didn't want someone else's input on this. I didn't know what I wanted, honestly, but I knew that there was nothing else for me here.

"Can you tell me more about it first?"

I could almost hear the old, cracked lips turning upwards into a wrinkly smile. "A wise answer. Of course, I would be happy to."

I talked on the phone with Mr. Wammy for about two hours. I didn't like answering his questions about me at first, and he must have picked up on that because for sometime he just described the school. It wasn't an orphanage in my eyes; it was more a coincidence that so many brilliant minds had been brought together because of a misfortune they all shared.

I had never been to England, but it sounded beautiful. Supposedly it rained there a lot, but the weather never really affected me much because I rarely went outside. In my mind I had built Wammy's House up as a majestic castle. Everyone there was no doubt happy, like a big family where everyone was smart and you didn't have to put with crap like doing word searches in your classes.

I asked him about the library, and then about the sort of electronics available to students. He told me that I would receive my own laptop, state-of-the-art, to use for class work and anything else in my spare time. That's all it took, and I was sold.

After the phone call, I was required to take a series of tests to make sure that I met the standards at Wammy's House. I didn't blow these off like I had the aptitude test the school had made me take; the Wammy tests were much harder. In addition to tests on my knowledge, deductive reasoning and conceptual skills, I also had to take a test that measured my social maturity. I think I bombed that one, but within a few days Quillsh Wammy called again to tell us that I had passed with good scores and would be accepted into the school.

That landed me on my first plane ride, heading to the land of the Queen. As a minor, I was required to wear a tag around my neck with identification and other nonsense. I felt like a complete idiot, but every time I tried to take it off the stewardess would gently scold me and ask that I keep it on.

I played my Gameboy most of the trip—at least until my batteries died and I couldn't find spares in my carry-on bag. (I guess that's what I get for letting them roll around loose.) The stewardess had brought me a small pillow and blanket near the beginning of the flight, so I finally put them to good use and got as comfortable as I could.

Despite being nervous and excited about getting to Wammy's, I eventually fell asleep. Soon I was being gently shaken at the shoulders, a feminine voice calling my name. I blinked my eyes open blearily, forgetting for a moment where I was. My goggles were still over my eyes, but they'd gone askew while I was sleeping. I worked to adjust them, blinking rapidly. "We're here," Announced the stewardess, with a smile too white to be natural, teeth tinted yellow through the lenses of my goggles.

I fumbled with my seatbelt, grabbed the small bag I brought on board with me and followed the woman off of the plane. I thought for a moment that she was actually going to insist on holding my hand, which would have been an extreme invasion of my personal space, but she seemed to think better of it and didn't even ask.

We stepped out into the terminal, and there behind the red rope stood who could only be Quillsh Wammy. He was the first person I saw, and instantly I knew it was him. He was old and wrinkled, with white hair and a pair of bushy eyebrows. His top lip wasn't even visible through his mustache. While he looked at me through a pair of spectacles, his gaze was still sharp and intelligent.

He wasn't exactly as I pictured, but I probably wasn't what he'd expected either. Regardless of any misconceptions he hadn't about me, his lips turned upwards upon seeing me. I smiled as well, because I knew that I was finally where I belonged.

* * *

_AN: Two in one day again! This is mostly just a filler chapter, sorry! I tried to cut out the unnecessary stuff, but most of this had to be said in order to get Matt over to Wammy's. Hopefully it wasn't too painful. I was really anxious to get this chapter up, because the next chapter we get to meet Mello! I am so excited for this meeting, I hope that this chapter wasn't too rushed because I was trying to get him there faster. xD_

_I received some wonderful reviews on the last chapter, thank you to everyone who took the time to let me know what they think! It really encourages me to keep writing when I know that people are enjoying the story. Sneak peeks are granted to those who request them! Cookies for all!_

_On a side note, any ideas for the genre(s) of this story? I was unsure where it fit, I may be changing those soon... Also, I should add, there will be a Mello x Matt pairing here, if that was unclear. =) Thanks again to all my wonderful readers! You guys rock!_


	5. 04

It turned out that Wammy's House wasn't a castle, but that didn't make it any less grand.

Mr. Wammy had to sign some paperwork at the airport so I could be 'released' to go with him. I felt like a convict with all these rules. (Can't one wear stripes without gaining funny looks from every passing stranger?) Just because I was a kid didn't mean I was an idiot and would go walking off with strangers. I bet I was much more capable of detecting danger than that stewardess.

Once we were cleared I stuffed my identification tag into the nearest trash can; I didn't fail to notice the amused look on Mr. Wammy's face. I only had two bags, both of which were small, and the two of us headed out of the terminal. I'd been sleeping during our landing, so this was my first look at England. The sky was grey with the threat of rain, and the air was thick with humidity. In short, I loved it, even if only because it was something different.

I thought we'd be taking a cab back to the house, as that had been my transportation going to the airport. I made to walk around a black stretch limo parked at the curb, but Mr. Wammy's voice called out to me. "Mr. Jeevas, this is our ride."

I stopped, turning to look and see where he was gesturing. Sure enough, he was pointing to the limousine. My eyes must have resembled small saucers behind my goggles. (I don't think they returned to normal size the rest of the day with all the amazement I had to endure.) Mr. Wammy smiled, seeming to enjoy my reaction.

I tried to school my face into something more normal, climbing into the backseat as he opened the door for me. It was huge inside; three of me could lie down on just one side of the car. If I'd ever been on a leather seat before, I couldn't remember it. It was a little sticky in the heat, but that kept me aware that this was all real. I remained glued to the window as we drove; soaking up everything there was to see.

The beautiful city of Winchester was nothing compared to Wammy's House. At the time, I thought the orphanage was _bigger_ than Winchester. The driveway was more of a road, composed of finely manicured gravel that was edged by hedges, which in turn led to sprawling green grass and large mature trees.

The house itself was striking white stone, towering some three or four stories high. I counted the windows, and discovered that it was indeed four. It was so beautiful, and I suddenly felt out of place. How was I supposed to fit in here?

"Mr. Jeevas, if you will come with me." Mr. Wammy's voice was soft and unimposing—I hadn't even noticed that we had stopped in front of the house and he had opened the door. I gathered my things sluggishly, eyes downcast as I followed him out of the limo. "We can discuss your class schedule and housing in my office, among other things."

I didn't look up when we entered through the large double doors that made up the entrance, but the marble tile beneath my feet was shiny and reflected a dim image of myself back at me. I was scruffy, with my untrimmed hair and baggy clothes. I didn't fit amongst the polished atmosphere. I envisioned the students I would be attending classes with; they probably wore uniforms, little cookie cutters of one another. I found myself hyperventilating. I wasn't ready for a change like this. This was a fairly easy 'which thing doesn't belong?' picture.

"Mail?" The pleasant voice of Mr. Wammy shook me out of my thoughts, and my head whipped up to look into his face. My goggles made his hair yellowish and his skin looked jaundice; he didn't look like such a friendly old man anymore, instead rather sickly with the golden tinge. He placed a hand on my back, which made me jump a bit, and steered me to the side through a door I hadn't noticed. The room reminded me of the director's office, and that calmed me a little. "Is everything okay?" He asked, although I could see in his face that he already knew what the matter was.

The first thing that came to mind came out of my mouth, "Where is everyone?" For as large a building as it was, we hadn't crossed a soul while journeying inside.

"Classes run until three o'clock." He offered as an explanation, although I had no idea what time it was right now. My watch was in my bag, and even so it still read the time in America.

Mr. Wammy had taken a seat in the chair on the other side of the large desk that took up most of the room and gestured for me to take sit down across from him. I sunk into the armchair he'd indicated; behind him was a large window that overlooked the extraordinary grounds that made up Wammy's House. As far as I could tell, we were now on the side of the house. Just barely out of my line of site I could see play equipment. That calmed me a little; maybe these kids weren't just genius robots.

"There are several things that you should know about this institution before you start school." Mr. Wammy drew my attention away from the window and I looked at his face again. "While I was completely honest with you over the phone, there are several things I omitted; these things are better discussed in person."

I stiffened again. Oh great, this was actually a cover for a secret terrorist organization that enslaved smart orphan children and made them build nuclear bombs. I knew it seemed too good to be true. We probably had fourteen hour work days with no lunch break; I bet there were cups beside our workstations that we had to pee in because going all the way to the bathroom would take valuable time away from our labors. Or maybe they just wouldn't let us drink at all, so we'd never have to go to the bathroom!

I needed to stop playing so many apocalyptic videogames.

He must have noticed my distress, because he stood. "Would you like some water?" Without waiting for a response he went to a pitcher that was set up in a very orderly manner on a table against the wall. He poured the ice water (no doubt bottled, my mind added,) into an intricate cut glass cup and handed it to me.

I looked down at the clear water, puzzling over whether or not the cup I'd have to pee in would be this fancy. The first floor was probably their cover; the floors above us must contain the sweatshops.

During my musings over urine and child labor, Mr. Wammy had gone to stand by the window, gazing outside with his hands held behind his back. "While we appear as a very prestigious organization to the outside world, there is more to this institution than a school and home for gifted individuals." I was unknowingly holding my breath. "Here, we are training students to choose the next generation L."

I had no idea what an L was, other than the letter after K, so I kept silent and waited for him to continue. I sipped my water; even if I did have to pee in a cup later, I was still thirsty.

He went on without prompting. "L is the world's greatest detective; at this school you will not only receive an outstanding education, but you will be competing against other students and evaluated on who will become the next L."

I drank my water freely now, since it seemed apparent that I wouldn't be present at a sweatshop later. I had to ask, "Are you anticipating something happening to the current L?" Why else would they be going through all the trouble to find a replacement?

Mr. Wammy laughed, although his eyes looked a little flat through the tint of my goggles. "It is a very dangerous job," He said seriously. "And it is best to expect the worse, so you may be pleasantly surprised when things turn out well. With that being said, I'm afraid that you will have to adopt a new identity. While I encourage you to make friends with the students here, remember that a genius mind does not always foster good intentions; for your safety and the safety of the other students, you will never know the true identity of anyone you meet here."

I felt like a secret agent; since building bombs for terrorist organizations seemed to be out of the picture, I allowed myself to be excited. "Can I pick my own name?" I wanted to know, probably a little overeager given the situation. This was the fresh start I'd been dreaming of.

Wammy laughed again, genuinely this time, and returned to his seat behind the desk. "I'm afraid that we already have all your information prepared." He said, amused. He picked up a small folder of papers and handed it to me. I set my glass down on the edge of his desk and flipped it open as he continued. "You will never again be addressed as Mail Jeevas; when you leave this office, you will be Matt."

Matt. It had a nice ring to it, unlike Mail, which everyone insisted on mispronouncing like the male gender. (It actually sounded more like mile, not that that was much better.) The folder contained information about my new identity, even a birth certificate from a town I'd never heard of before. There was no picture in the file, either because they hadn't taken one of me yet or for the 'protection' reasons he'd mentioned earlier. I was leaning towards the latter.

I looked back up at the man seated across from me, speechless for a moment, and I must have looked like an idiot with a smile plastered on my face. "Thank you Mr. Wammy." I said, and it was probably the first time I'd ever genuinely showed gratitude before.

"Please, just Wammy is fine." He gave me a smile in return, his cheeks lining with wrinkles at the action. He was no longer sickly yellow looking, more of a shining gold. "Now Matt, let's give you the rest of your information, shall we?"

I handed Wammy back the folder, only to be handed a new set of papers, these for me to keep. The schedule spelled out each of my classes very clearly, along with the teachers. I also had a map and a school manual. It was a lot to take in, but I was thrilled nonetheless.

"You will be rooming with another student, he's a year older than you but I'm sure you two will get along fine." Wammy gestured for me to set the map down on the desk and I did so. He circled one of the squares on the third floor. "This whole floor is the boys' dorms; yours is this one here. There are signs all around the building so you should have no trouble finding your way. Regardless, I have excused you and your roommate from classes tomorrow so you may get acquainted with each other and the campus. If you have any trouble, you can come see me or ask any of the teachers and staff. The gentleman wear blue suits, and the ladies a blue skirt and blouse. They will be aware that you are a new student, and happy to help."

I smiled a little. "You don't get new students here very often, do you?" I couldn't imagine this man giving explanations to new students every day.

Wammy chuckled. "It is a rare day indeed. I hope you will enjoy Wammy's, Matt."

With everything in order, the two of us exited Wammy's office and headed for the stairs. He had mentioned an elevator, but students were not allowed to use it unless given special permission. I had no problem with walking; it was probably good for me anyways with all the time I sat around playing videogames.

Wammy walked me to my dorm room, but he was right, it was very easy to navigate the halls despite the large scale of the building. "Well Matt, we are quite pleased to have you here with us. Take mind of the booklet I gave you, just because you're new doesn't mean you won't be punished for breaking the rules." It was a good-natured reminder, and I didn't mind.

He made sure that my key worked before leaving me alone. The room was of modest size, the walls a soft eggshell blue with a large window and a window seat directly across from the door. On either side of the window was a single bed, each with their own bedside table. The bedding was obviously standard, each having a plaid green and white comforter. On one side of the door was a dresser, and on the other side a desk.

It was surprisingly clean, and I moved to the bed that seemed unused and set my two bags down. The bed looked soft and plush compared to the one I'd had at the orphanage in America. The clock on my bedside table said it was 1:34 p.m., so I had a little while until the students got out of classes. As Wammy had promised, a laptop was set on the desk, a sticky note on the top reading, "Matt." I booted it up and sifted through all the processor information to see what it was capable of, pleased to find that it was top quality and could handle just about anything I wanted to do on it.

It was very quiet in my room, and now that my excitement had died down a little I went to my bag to dig out my watch. It read eight o'clock, and I was unsure if that meant morning or night. Either way, I was pretty tired—that sleep on the plane had been pretty restless—and I figured I could lie down for a few minutes before my roommate arrived.

I took my bags threw them to the floor at the foot of my bed and pulled off my boots. My goggles came off this time, and I set them carefully on my bedside table and pulled back the covers to climb underneath. Although the air was a comfortable temperature, I liked to sleep under something. The bed was even more comfy than it looked, and I nodded off before I could think better of it.

The room was dark when I started to come back to consciousness, which was strange because I didn't remember closing the curtains. There was a soft _snap_ from behind me—I was facing the wall—and I stiffened. Slowly, I started to turn over.

On the bed across from mine sat a boy. He was cross-legged, a thick school book open in his lap. In one hand he held what looked like a bar of half unwrapped chocolate. The curtains were drawn now, and he was working by the light of the small lamp on his bedside. His eyes were on the pages, and I don't think he'd noticed that I was awake yet. He raised the chocolate to his lips, placing it between his teeth and with another _snap_ he broke off a new piece.

It was strange looking at the world without the cover of my goggles. This boy's hair was a little longer than most, a light blonde. It fell into his face as he leaned over his book, and I couldn't see his eyes. He wore all black, which made a striking contrast against his pale features.

I didn't realize that I was staring, mostly because he hadn't moved. "If you're quite done," His voice made me jump, his head rising so I got my first look at his eyes. Cutting blue. "I need to turn the page now."

I just gawked at him, and he turned the page. I fumbled to move up into a sitting position, pushing the covers away. "I'm Ma-" I paused for a moment. "I'm Matt." I said decisively.

"I know." He took another bite of chocolate. I'd never seen someone eat it that way before, didn't it hurt his teeth? He seemed to have gone back to reading.

I frowned slightly, but reached over to grab my goggles and pull them on. Much better. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" I asked plainly.

He raised a blonde eyebrow, glancing up at me again. I gulped, uncomfortable under his gaze. "I'm Mello."

I opened my mouth to say that Mello didn't sound like much of a name, but stopped. I had to remind myself that Mello wasn't his real name. And who was I to talk? My name was Mail, for crying out loud.

"Nice to meet you." I added, avoiding his gaze.

"Save the pleasantries for the pleasant, _Matt_." He said, but it wasn't really a hostile statement. More of a warning.

It took me a moment to piece together what he meant, but by that time he had gone back to reading. I sighed a little, leaning over the end of my bed and pulled my bag up with me. I found my spare batteries in a sock, and started to play my Gameboy in silence.

* * *

_AN: Longest chapter yet! I was cracking up while Matt was imagining Wammy's being some sort of terrorist organization that kidnapped orphan children. (Admit it, you'd think so too if you were in his place. Overactive imagination my foot...) I hope you all enjoyed it as well! I almost stopped in several places in this chapter, but I promised you Mello, so there he is! Heh. Sorry if he's not what you expected, although I never really pictured him as the warm kind of guy. At least not at first. =3 It's not too cliche that they're roommates, is it? Eh, it was the only way to get them to interact, really. I didn't even get to where I wanted in this chapter, but I'm happy with the result. Next one should be good. Finally going to get into the meat of the story!_

_Shout out to Rachel, who's been leaving me lovely reviews. You make me happy. =D So review, kay guys? Thanks for reading!_


	6. 05

I was sure that if we were on the first floor, crickets would have been audible in the room, it was so quiet. Other than the soft flutter of turning pages and clicking buttons, we didn't make a sound. It didn't seem that Mello had any intention of making small talk, and I silently dreaded tomorrow where we'd have to spend the day 'getting to know one another.'

I mumbled some excuse about having to go to the bathroom and slipped out to go down the hall where the community bathroom was located. (There were no cups for pee visible, thank goodness.) I locked myself into one of the stalls and changed into my pajama pants in there. There was no way I was getting undressed around that blonde spazz.

I already felt like he was watching my every move without actually _watching_ me. When I looked up, discreetly, he was exactly as I'd left him, sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading like I wasn't even there. When I sat like that for too long my legs got cramped up, wasn't it uncomfortable for him? He was probably some superhuman genius whose mental capacity had run out and now his brilliance had translated into phenomenal physical attributes. Like being able to sit still for a _really_ long time.

I'd brought my bag of toiletries with me, which is where I'd stashed my pajama pants when he wasn't looking. (Or at least I thought he wasn't looking.) I'd also shoved my Gameboy in there for good measure. For ten minutes I sat on the toilet in my pajamas, playing Pokémon and watching the feet of the other boys come and go. Oddly, it was much more comfortable in the bathroom, and the lighting was better.

Afraid of what he'd say if I was gone too long, I packed up, and went to brush my teeth at the sink. My hair was hopeless and I didn't even attempt to tame it. I headed back to find he had moved, which surprised me. Mello was standing now, emptying the pockets of his pants onto his bedside table.

He didn't glance up as I entered, so I silently went to place my bag amongst my other belongings. "I hope you washed your hands." His voice startled me, which was stupid, but I was so used to him being quiet it was odd to hear him speaking to me again.

I laughed weakly, because that seemed like the appropriate thing to do, but didn't know what to say to that so I remained quiet. I sat on the edge of my bed, observing the small pile of things that he had been collecting in his pockets that day.

They didn't even look very big on the outside, but apparently they had housed two wrapped chocolate bars, a wallet, a keychain with no keys and…Was that a pack of cigarettes? He must have noticed me craning my neck to see (I fail at being discreet, it seems,) and turned to me sharply. "What?" He barked.

I didn't let that phase me; he seemed like a naturally cranky person. "You smoke?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Maybe I do, what's it to you?" He didn't look defensive, just weary.

"I was just wondering." I waited for a moment for him to elaborate on his possession, but he didn't, so I was forced to continue. "It's illegal for kids to buy those in the States. Can you buy them here?"

"No."

Note to self: Avoid yes and no questions.

"So how did you get them?" I prompted.

Mello shrugged a little, which I took as a victory, seeing as it was some sort of reaction. He sat on the edge of his bed so he was facing me, holding the cigarettes in his hands and looking down at them. "I lifted them off some guy."

Oddly enough, this did not surprise me. "So you're a smoker then?"

"God, what is this, and interrogation?" He demanded a little irritably. "If you must know, I don't smoke, but I want to try it."

I smiled a little. "Because smoking is badass?" I inferred.

Mello snorted, but there was a look of amusement in his eyes. "Well when _you_ say it, it just sounds stupid."

I was pleased that we were having an actual conversation, even if the subject was a bit…odd. "Well, have you tried one yet?"

Mello flipped open the top of the box, drawing out one of the cigarettes and placing it between his lips. I have to admit, it did make him look tougher. (Not that he seemed to have much trouble in that area.) "No time like the present, I guess." He said with another shrug.

I watched as he stood and went over to the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a black drawstring bag the size of my palm. He opened it and dumped a lighter into his hand. I couldn't help but wonder what other illegal goods he kept in that bag, but before I could ponder it much longer he had replaced the little sack back in the drawer. No doubt it would receive a new hiding place first chance he got alone.

I watched as he flipped open the lighter, but he paused before the golden flame reached the cancer stick between his lips. "What, is this some kind of show for you?" He deadpanned.

Smiling, I said nothing. In my mind, I had made this out to be a bonding experience, so in a way it was a little like a show.

Finally, rolling his eyes, he lit up. The end burned, and I watched him take his first drag on the cigarette—and promptly be sent into a fit of coughing. He removed the cigarette with two fingers, shoulders shaking as he hacked violently again.

It was impossible not to start cracking up. The badass image went right out the window. He turned to face me then, eyes burning in a way similar to the cigarette. "Bastard." He hissed, which promptly made me shut up, although I probably still looked amused despite my efforts.

With a growl, he shoved the still lit cigarette into my hand. I fumbled to not burn myself, or get ash on my bed. "I'd like to see you do better." He challenged, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

I looked down at the stick in my hand, the end slowly burning down closer to where my fingers gripped. At the filter I could see where his lips had left a wet mark on the paper. Hesitantly, I raised the cigarette and placed it between my lips, trying to mimic what I'd seen Mello do. I tried to ignore the eager look on his face, inhaling through the fag.

Nicotine filled my lungs, closing her caressing claws around my young body and lulling me. I exhaled slowly, a pleasing puff of smoke floating up towards the ceiling. Mello looked livid; I figured he didn't like to be shown up.

"Beginners luck." He muttered, nose scrunching. He went back to his bedside table, taking one of the bars of chocolate and ripped the foil, taking a vicious bite out of the corner. I dragged on the cigarette again, and the effect was the same. He tossed me the pack of cigarettes, which was only half full, and I caught it in my free hand. "Have 'em, it's a disgusting habit anyways. Open the window, would you?"

I knew that he was just upset that he hadn't gotten it so easily; I learned later that if Mello didn't get something on the first try, he usually threw a fit then never tried it again. He liked instant success.

As he had instructed, I went to the window and pulled open the curtains. It was dark outside, but I opened the pane an inch (it wouldn't go much farther since we were so far up,) and sat down on the window seat. I breathed the smoke out the window this time.

Mello had already gone through half of his chocolate bar; I could hear the snap every time he took a bite. I glanced back at him, since there was nothing to see out the dark window, to see that he was undressing for bed. He pulled his black tee-shirt over his head, and resting against his chest a cross necklace.

"You're religious?" I asked, holding the cigarette between two fingers and tapping the ash out the window. The process came fairly naturally to me.

"Yeah, Catholic." He said, although that meant little to me. I knew very little about different denominations. He was pulling on a new shirt, which covered the rosary from my view.

"Do you go to church?" I continued.

"Sometimes."

"Do you pray?"

He paused then, and I watched him carefully as he took another piece of chocolate and broke it off with his teeth. "When I feel like I need to." He said finally.

I looked out the window wistfully again, really just looking at my reflection and Mello's behind me in the glass. "My Mom was religious." I said, not really expecting a response from him so I continued. "She told me that I'd get anything I prayed for. I prayed for the new Zelda game, but I never got it."

Mello let out a snort, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "That's stupid."

"Well what do you pray for?" I pestered, turning towards him slightly.

He considered that for a minute. "Spiritual stuff, you know, things that God wants you to pray for. World peace and shit like that."

I laughed, smiling before turning to the window pane again and dragging on my almost gone cigarette. "I'll keep that in mind next time…" I mused, falling silent.

I watched Mello through the glass, and he was watching me. "So what's your story, Matt?" He said finally. I was surprised; it was the first time he'd actually shown any interest in me.

"I'm just an orphaned smart kid. You?"

"Same."

At least that was something we had in common.

* * *

_AN: So a habit is born. Yay for Matt/Mello bonding! =D (Oooh, they shared spit on a cigarette. -shot-) I'm really trying hard to get Mello's character down, he's kind of a tough one, (no pun intended,) but I'm pleased with how he turned out. At this point I'm really just working to build up their relationship. I hope to keep this fic pretty canon, but that doesn't mean that I won't have my own little happenings. (The time at Wammy's leaves a lot of leeway.) I may be introducing our little white haired prodigy in the next chapter. We'll have to see. Mello will be up to mischief, no doubt._

_I received some great reviews for the last chapter, I was pleased as punch! It's so encouraging when I get nice feedback. I hope that everyone enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think!_

_On a side note, I wanted to apologize for some of the horrible grammatical and spelling mistakes I've made in previous chapters. I try to self-edit, but it's very difficult for me to see my own mistakes. (Sometimes I think my fingers work faster than my brain when I type.) I'm going to try to do a mass editing of old chapters, probably this weekend. Sorry if I spam your inboxes with alerts when I reupload some of the older chapters. Like I said, expect something like that around the weekend. Thanks for putting up with me! You guys rock!_


	7. 06

When Mello decided it was time for bed, there was no complaining. While I could have easily just sat under my comforter and played my Gameboy, he no doubt would have been irritated by the muted glow through my blankets. I didn't even attempt it.

Since I had slept most of the day, it was impossible for me to shut my eyes against the darkness. My goggles were safe on my bedside table, and I was left to just stare up at the shadows on the ceiling. I was hyped up, anxious to see Wammy's and start my classes. I listened to Mello's breathing, counting the breaths he took and gauging the rhythm to determine if he was asleep or not.

Finally I turned onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow and watched his outline in the darkness. "Mello, are you awake?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Not anymore." He deadpanned, although I knew he had responded far too quickly to have been asleep. I didn't let his hostility to get to me; it just seemed to be his personality.

"Hey," I called, speaking a little louder through the darkness now. "What happened to your old roommate? You had a roommate before me, right?"

"I suffocated him with his own pillow because he talked too much."

I chuckled a little under my breath. It was hard to take his threats seriously; it seemed as though he was all talk. "No, seriously." I prompted.

I heard Mello shift in his bed, propping himself up in a way similar to what I was doing. "I don't know, I think he was allergic to sarcasm. He asked to be moved to a different room. Being around me made him sneeze too much."

I laughed again, and heard Mello scoff in the darkness. "You're a piece of work, Matt." He continued. "I think your sense of self-preservation stands at about zero."

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he couldn't see it. "You're not going to hurt me." I replied confidently. Probably too confidently, because I could almost hear his lips turn downward in a dangerous scowl.

"Want to bet?"

"No," I quickly backpedaled. "If we bet on it then I can almost guarantee I won't have a face tomorrow." It was funny how I knew he was smirking now, even though I couldn't make out his features through the darkness. I decided that psychoanalyzing him aloud might be a death wish, so I kept my thoughts to myself. "I think we're friends." I added, because that seemed like a safe thing to say. It was nice having a friend; I'd never really desired one before but it was cool to have someone to talk to.

I heard a bark of laughter through the darkness. "I just threatened you, and you say we're friends? Are you retarded?"

"You don't have to admit it." I added. "But I think it's true." I was very confident in my conclusion. He hadn't killed me yet, so I figured maybe on some level he thought of me as a friend—or a human being that he was willing to put up with, at least. (Then again, I hadn't done so great on that social maturity test. Perhaps he really was plotting how to kill me and I just hadn't noticed yet.)

There was silence for a moment as he seemed to consider what I'd said. "I don't have any friends." He said decidedly. "We're all rivals here. Even us, you just haven't seen how brutal it is yet."

This made me frown. I didn't like the idea of being competitive. Who said I really wanted to be the next L? I'd rather work with computers than be a Sherlock Holmes. That took too much effort. "Are you the best?" I wanted to know.

I heard him tense; I could see a glint in his eyes and the subtle sound of his back straightening. "I _will_ be. Right now this little albino bastard kid is first, but I'm going to take his spot. Just you wait."

I believed him. He had ambition, that much was obvious, but I felt no desire to be better than him. He obviously wanted it more; I doubted I was smarter than him anyways. "I won't get in your way, you know." I stated in a matter-a-fact way. "I bet you will be the best. I don't want to be number one anyways."

There was silence for a moment, and I think he was gauging whether or not I was serious. Finally he said, "What is _wrong_ with you?" Then abruptly he sat up, and pointed a finger in my direction. "You're a fucking spy for Near, aren't you?!" He was standing then, and I was afraid he actually might hit me.

I shrunk closer to the wall. I had no idea what was going on, so I said the only thing that I could think of. "I'd rather spy for Far."

He stopped, features visible in the dark now that he was closer to my bed. His eyebrows furrowed. "What did you say?" He asked, seeming both puzzled and irritated. The flare of anger had died a little though.

Satisfied that my life was no longer in immediate danger, I sat up so I was closer to his eyelevel. Regardless of my efforts, I still had to tilt my head up to see his face. "I don't know, you said I was a spy for Near; how do you spy for a distance, anyways? Far sounds cooler than Near..." It really did sound stupid when I said it out loud.

He just stared at me blankly for a moment, like I was dumb. Then, slowly, I watched his lips turn upward and he started laughing. _Really_ laughing; I didn't know it was possible that such a sound could come out of his mouth. "You _are_ a fucking retard." He said, still chuckling. "You're right, no way Near would hire an idiot like you."

"Hey!" I said, a little indignant. "I don't even know what a Near is!"

He smiled. "Just that little albino jerk in first." He explained, his mood seeming to have improved greatly.

That made sense, but before I could say so, Mello was already heading back to his bed. He was shaking his head in the darkness, still laughing softly. It was nice to hear him laugh, even at my own expense; I didn't mind so much.

I watched his form climb back under the covers. I was still sitting up when I asked, "So do you believe me?"

Mello's laughter had calmed, and he sat as well, the comforter in his lap. "Yeah, I do." He said finally.

I smiled, pleased with this small victory. "So as long as I don't try to take your spot, we can be friends?"

I watched his shoulders move in a shrug. "I guess, if you really want it so bad."

I just smiled in the dark. "Night Mello." Was all I said, and settled back down again. He did the same shortly after, and silence fell. I listened to his breathing while I studied the ceiling. I had plenty to think about—I was going to help Mello be first.

* * *

The next day we wandered around the school, Mello pointing out things that were important. Everyone else was in classes, but for whatever reason, wherever we went there seemed to be a teacher or staff member close by. Mello was getting fairly paranoid about it. "They're following us." He mumbled to me as we took the stairs to check out the ground floor.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, looking around. We passed a male teacher, who nodded to us while continuing on his way. Then I remembered yesterday when I had arrived; there hadn't been a soul in sight. "It is a little weird though." I admitted.

"Distrusting bastards." He muttered. "I bet The Enforcer is behind this." My questioning look must have prompted him to continue. "Roger, he's the—" He paused as he passed a janitor, who was sweeping the floor, keeping his head down. When we turned the corner he continued. "He manages the house. He's like another Wammy, but much more of an ass."

"That still doesn't explain why this place is crawling with adult supervision." I pointed out.

Mello rolled his eyes dramatically. "Obviously, he knew we'd be out of classes today for me to show you around the school. He doesn't trust us."

"You mean he doesn't trust _you_." I added, smiling a little.

"That went unspoken." Mello replied, smiling as well.

He stopped us, turning towards a large bulletin on the wall. Through the tinge of my goggles, it appeared to be lighted from within, giving off some unearthly corkboard glow. "This," He said, pausing to be dramatic. "Is The Board."

I gave an appreciative, "Ooh," trying to keep my face straight and not start cracking up. Other than the paranoia, he was in a good mood today.

"Every Friday, they post the new scores here." He tapped the center of the board with his knuckles, where a sheet of white paper hung, like the center of a shrine. Sure enough, at the top was Near, and directly below him was Mello. There were more pages of scores pinned behind the first, and we flipped through them. My name was at the end, a blank place where my scores should be. "First week scores determine your fate." He said cryptically.

"Huh." Was all I said for a moment, studying the names above mine. "So they even post those in last place? That kind of sucks for them."

"No shit." He agreed sullenly.

After mutually deciding that the inside was boring, we headed outside. I had a few cigarettes left, and pulled one out to smoke. Mello had agreed to let me 'hold onto' his lighter, which essentially meant he was giving it to me, although I guess he could ask for it back at any time. I lit up, dragging on the cigarette as we walked across the grass. The outside was deserted; I figured that Roger hadn't expected us to go outside.

"I'm almost out of cigarettes." I said, finally breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between us.

"Good," Mello muttered. "It's gross. I don't want you smoking in the room."

"I won't smoke in the room." I promised. "I want to get some more though."

"I'm not stealing cigarettes for you." He deadpanned.

I resisted the urge to sigh. "I wasn't asking you to steal them; we could buy some."

"Did you suddenly just age seven years?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Where's the nearest convenience store?"

He shrugged in a, 'it's your funeral,' sort of way, and we headed off down the street. There was a gas station about a block away, and we stopped there. "So how are you going to get them out of the locked cabinet, genius?" He wanted to know.

He had so little faith. There was a bum on the corner, which surprised me, because Wammy's seemed to be in such a good neighborhood. I left the skeptical Mello, who had crossed his arms, and went over to the dirty looking man. "Excuse me." I said, but he didn't respond. I placed a hand on his shoulder, and shook him a little. His jacket felt gross against my palm.

He looked up then, smelling of alcohol and sweat. He didn't seem dangerous though. "Hey, if you go buy cigarettes for me in there, I'll pay you."

I could tell Mello was hovering close by now, although I wasn't sure why. The bum's eyebrows rose at the offer, but he nodded. "Sure thing kid." He agreed.

I pulled out my wallet, handing him a ten pound note. "Could you get a chocolate bar, too?" I added, and he just nodded in a distracted manner. He took my money and entered the store.

Mello looked a little amused, and we waited for five minutes. Then ten. I craned my neck to look in the window. I could only see the clerk at the register. Mello seemed to be having a difficult time not smiling. Finally he couldn't seem to stand it any longer and started to laugh. I grit my teeth. "What?!" I demanded. Soon he was bent over, cracking up. "What the hell?" I said again, starting to get angry now.

Finally he caught his breath, his smile wide. "He just went inside and then out the back door." He said, and started to laugh again.

My mouth hung open for a minute, stunned into silence. Finally I managed, "You…You could have said something!"

Mello chuckled, patting me on the shoulder. "But then you wouldn't have learned your lesson." He reasoned.

"You ass." I muttered, but didn't mean anything by it.

Mello knew that, and just chuckled. "Ah, come on, I'll get you some later. Let's go back."

Seeing no other choice, I reluctantly followed him back. I checked the pack from yesterday; I only had two cigarettes left. I took one out, looking at it with longing before placing it between my lips. We were just approaching the house then, and I was busy fumbling with my vest pocket to get out the lighter.

"Ah shit." I heard Mello say beside me, but before I could look up he snatched the unlit cigarette from right between my lips, shoving me hard. I stumbled back a step, taken off guard, nearly falling but managing to catch myself.

"What's your problem?!" I demanded.

Mello was putting the cigarette between his lips. "What the hell Matt?" His voice was unnaturally loud. "I told you not to touch my cigarettes, they're not toys!"

I opened my mouth to respond, but paused as I noticed someone approaching us out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought it was Wammy, but a closer inspection of the man proved that he had no mustache, and his hurried walk and glaring eyes definitely did not belong to the good-natured owner of the house.

"Mello!" The man boomed. He looked at us both, seeming to find us appalling if the sneer on his face was any indication. "Smoking is against the rules." He said, seeming almost smug.

Mello glared hard at the man while I watched on, wide-eyed behind my goggles. "Yeah, and, Roger…?" My roommate egged him on.

"And you're going to be spending some time in my office." Said the man, and he placed a hand on Mello's shoulder to steer him away. I was stunned, Mello turning his head to look over his shoulder, my cigarette still between his lips. He gave me a half smile.

"Wait, I want to come too!" I called out without thinking.

* * *

_AN: Matt is a follower. I always thought that was one of his most prominent traits in the anime. I don't know how I feel about this chapter. Matt was very difficult to write in the beginning there, I hope he turned out okay. (Mello laughing, twice. Woah.) I felt bad just leaving it at the first part, that's why we have the break and a continuation into the next day. I wanted to give you guys a bit more. And I know, no Near! I'm sorry, it just didn't work like I expected. I'm thinking the next chapter though, but no promises. It depends how long Roger keeps them captive. =P (Also, was Roger okay? I wasn't so keen, but I don't know. I'd like to hear what you guys think!)_

_I received so many nice reviews on the last chapter, you guys have no idea how great it makes me feel to look at my inbox and see all these lovely messages. You guys are amazing, and make writing worth while. I hope this chapter lives up to expectation, I'd love to hear what you think. Remember, it takes you one minute to review, and it makes my day! Thank you again for your support!_

_I tried really hard to edit this, so I hope it's error free, and won't burn out your eyes. =D_


	8. 07

Mello and I received a very "stern talking to." After which, Mello chewed me out for giving myself up to Roger. I told him that I felt bad for him to get all the blame. He shot back that if he knew I would feel so guilty about it he wouldn't have volunteered himself up to save me from punishment anyways. Truthfully, I was just glad that we were in trouble together. I think on some level, maybe Mello was too. It was more fun if you had someone to share the blame with.

In the end, Roger confiscated my cigarettes. Apparently this was our warning, and if it ever happened again the two of us would receive some awful, unnamed punishment. Roger made us read all these articles on lung cancer while we were confined in his office—personally, I thought it would be better to die young. I didn't want to get old, so maybe I could ruin my body before it could ruin itself. Wouldn't it be better that way? I'd probably enjoy myself more.

People always said you should take good care of yourself so you can live a long life. So they exercise, eat well, don't drink, smoke or do drugs, and they live into old age. That's fine and dandy for them, and then they're eighty years old and can't walk without holding onto something. Who wants to live like that? I think it would suck to be old. You get all wrinkly and can't play videogames without wearing reading glasses. I've never heard of prescription goggles, so I would pretty much be screwed. So getting cancer and dying young wouldn't be so bad. I don't think Roger realized that this entire meeting had only encouraged me to continue smoking.

Even though Mello would probably rather cut off his own ears than admit it, I think this really proved that we were friends. I never expected he'd try to take the blame when I messed up; although now that I think about it, Mello seems to _enjoy_ being in trouble. Regardless, no one had ever done something like that for me before. I couldn't help but admire him for it.

Mello promised he'd get me some more cigarettes. I asked if he was going to steal some, and he wouldn't tell me. Sure enough though, he came up with a new pack the very next day. All I could do is be grateful, especially since he thought smoking was nasty and said I smelled up the room. (I couldn't very well smoke outside now that Roger was onto me, so I had to sit on the window seat and do my best to blow the smoke out the window.)

I started classes the next day, and I was nervous, not knowing what to expect of a school designed specifically for genius children. Mello went with me to my first class, which happened to be a technology skill course. He sat with me in the back, sharing my laptop since he hadn't brought his.

"Mello, you don't have this class until next period." The teacher, Mr. Wilson according to my schedule, said when the final bell had rung.

"Oh, I'm here to help Matt." He said, as if it was the most obvious thing the world. The teacher either didn't find it appropriate to argue, or knew it would be a waste of time and left us be.

While the other kids were learning HTML, I showed Mello how to get through the internet filters with a proxy I'd made myself; in return he showed me a porn site that didn't require downloads, which could be riddled with viruses and slow down my processor. Then we went onto the Wammy's House website, got Roger's staff picture and Photoshopped him smoking a cigarette. I showed Mello how to hack into the mainframe, and we uploaded our photo over the old one. It was hard for us to keep quiet in the back of the room, we were laughing so hard. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a class as much as I did that one; I didn't learn a thing except for where the good porn was and that Roger looked like retarded when he was holding a fag. No wonder he wanted me to stop, he was just jealous that he couldn't pull it off himself.

Mello went with me to all of my classes, none of which he was actually enrolled in. He helped me in some of things that I didn't understand, like my English class, which made little to no sense. Later, he ended up convincing Wammy to let us have the same schedule. Apparently the old man just smiled and said he was, "Glad we were getting along."

Although I met other kids throughout the day, no one initiated any sort of conversation. I think everyone was intimidated by Mello (no surprise there,) and we were left to ourselves. That was fine by me; I didn't want people trying to befriend me. That was too much attention, I already had a friend. Mello provided enough social contact to keep me from becoming a recluse, but not too much that I was overwhelmed and _wanted_ to become a recluse. And as a plus, he deterred some of the interest away from me.

We ate lunch together, finding our own table in the corner dining hall and claiming it as ours for the rest of time. Mello admitted that he usually just took food up to the room and ate there, but he was willing to eat here with me. It was noisy with all the kids, most of whom seemed relatively normal. There were still a few odd ones though.

"Who's that guy in the pajamas?" I asked Mello in a low tone, popping another chip into my mouth.

Mello didn't even follow my gaze to know who I was talking about. The boy was eating alone, his hair oddly white, the same color as his ill-fitting clothes. Through the tinge of my goggles he looked sickly pale. He kept his head down so I couldn't see his face. "That's Near. Little bastard." Mello muttered, taking a vicious bite of his chocolate pudding, but it didn't seem to please him as much as a chocolate bar. (My best guess was that he was upset it didn't snap when he took a bite.)

I watched the introverted boy for a few more moments, and then abruptly he looked up and met my gaze. His eyes were oddly dark compared to his skin and hair, and his gaze looked hallow and cold. My cheeks heated up as I was caught in my observations, ducking my head.

Mello chuckled beside me, having caught the entire interaction. He sipped his chocolate milk, (I swear he an addiction to all things cocoa,) and smiled a little. "Don't let him get to you, he's a freak."

"And we're not?" I asked skeptically, looking down at myself through my goggles—stripes and baggy jeans—then at Mello with his long hair, wearing all black and a rosary.

Mello shrugged. "Point taken. At least we're not loners who play with kid toys though. We're the cool freaks."

* * *

The week went by quickly, which surprised me. Usually school dragged on, but I was actually enjoying myself. Mello and I were a good team, making trouble when there was nothing better to do, and helping each other when we could. Soon, it was Friday. Mello became more and more anxious as the week went on, I noticed. His attention waned away from me, and instead he focused more on his studies.

As promised, the scores were posted Friday afternoon. Mello and I were amongst the crowd of students all swarming around the bulletin board to see where they placed for the week. I followed after Mello—he was pretty good at elbowing his way to the front. He looked at the top of the list, seeming surprised as he turned back to me.

"Did you make it into first?" I asked anxiously.

"No, still second." He said, although his jaw was a little slack. "Matt, you're third."

That made absolutely no sense. There must have been a mistake; I wasn't smarter than all these kids. I just screwed around in class and completed tests on a whim or by instinct. How could I have moved that far ahead so quickly?

I was abruptly dragged from my thoughts as someone grasped the collar in the back of my vest, literally dragging me up a few inches off the ground. I flailed to regain my footing on the ground. "What the—" I started to object, but was suddenly put back on my feet facing the other direction.

Before me was a boy, no, a giant, of about fourteen years of age. I knew I was scrawny, but I figured it would take two of me, side by side, just to be as wide as his shoulders. I think I shrunk a little, just under his glaring gaze. "You're the git who took my spot!" He roared.

It wasn't so crowded suddenly, the kids making a half circle around us. The group watched on, seeming eager for bloodshed. "Um, no, you see, there must be a mistake—" I started to back up, running into another body behind me. I jumped nearly a foot in the air, but then realized it was Mello. He looked just as murderous as the boy in front of me.

"It's not our fault you're not good enough." Mello sneered.

My eyes widened, hoping to convey to him that I would rather _not_ lose limbs or bodily fluids at this time.

"Mello, don't tell me you're defending this little prick?" The boy continued, gritting his teeth. "Just wait man, he's going to be taking your spot next."

"I don't want to take _anyone's _spot." I objected, but it fell onto deaf ears. Mello and this monstrous boy were too absorbed to pay me much attention now.

The boy jabbed an accusing finger in my direction. I shrunk further at Mello's side. "He must have cheated; it took me months to get that spot! I bet he's cheating off _you _Mello. You two are always sitting together, all buddy-buddy. Little bastard's using you to get good scores!"

Mello decked him then, right in the nose, seeming to take his opponent off guard. Blood dribbled down to the boy's lip as I heard a _crack_, his nose not looking quite right. Tears filled his eyes as he cradled the injury, half bent over. Mello scoffed, mumbling something that sounded like, "Wimp," and coming back over to me.

He grabbed me by the wrist, the stunned crowd parting to let us through. (They probably hadn't expected the fight to start and finish so quickly.) I was too shocked to object as he dragged me away from the board.

"Matt." Mello paused, and numbly I looked towards the owner of the voice. Near, in all his white glory, twirled a lock of hair around his finger as he observed us. We were a little ways from the bulletin now, the crowd that had formed dispersing. Someone was helping the injured boy down the other direction, I assumed to go see the nurse. "Congratulations on making third." He continued, his voice sending an odd chill down my spine. This kid creeped me out.

"Uh, thanks?" I said, glancing at Mello, who was still clutching my wrist. His eyes narrowed at Near like he knew that boy had an ulterior motive of talking to us.

"That makes us the top three," Continued the freakish albino. I was itching to get out of here. "Perhaps sometime we could—"

"Fuck off!" Mello finally snapped, dragging me down the hall once more. I happily followed.

* * *

_AN: Fanfiction was freaking out yesterday. I couldn't even get into my document manager. I had hoped to do all my editing then, but eh. (Editing makes me twitch.) Might try to do that this evening. I was hoping to give you guys this chapter yesterday (chapter a day keeps the doctor away!) but like I said, issues with uploading. I like Mello. Yeah. That's all I have to say. I almost felt sorry for Near. Then I remembered who he was and thought better of it. =D_

_You guys are amazing, I love reading your reviews. It really is quite pathetic how excited I get when I see I have a new review._

_While I had considered writing more anecdotes about their time at Wammy's, I think this time in Matt's life has served its purpose. Next chapter might make you hate me. =) Until then!_


	9. 08

Mello and I had a very symbiotic relationship. I was the clown fish to his sea anemone. (This was through process of elimination—Mello would probably kill me if I ever tried to suggest that he was a clown fish.) Two years slipped by like sand, smooth as a handful yet each individual grain a little rough when rubbed between the pads of my fingers.

We were inseparable. He was my best friend, the one who put up with my obnoxious habits like twelve hour game marathons and chain smoking. He was never afraid of hurting my feelings, and I could always rely on him to cut the crap and be honest with me. He wasn't afraid to tell me when I hadn't showered for a week and "smelled like cigarettes and shit."

While I sometimes thought that my personality was obsessive, I was nothing compared to Mello. He was constantly distracted, getting into his 'moods' where he became single-minded and fanatical about the hierarchy at Wammy's. I liked to think that I sometimes provided a distraction, however small it was. We kept each other company, and usually kept the other sane.

There were times when we were at each other's throats, but usually it was resolved without violence. Every once in a while though, Mello would be in over his head and end up taking it out on me. Once he snatched my cigarette right from between my lips and put it out on my arm. "Don't you ever fuckin' smoke around me again!" That was the week Near had beaten Mello on a project; Mel had gotten cocky about it and ended up getting a poor score. I still had a small round scar on my left forearm. Mello never apologized, and I kept the mark covered. We never talked about it, but I knew he regretted it, even if he never said so.

We were good at knowing which subjects were off limits. I never brought up Mello's competition with Near; it was like he was a ticking bomb and one wrong move would trip the wires and set him off. We never discussed our pasts, and the families we had and lost. We never talked about L, or aspirations beyond the immediate.

I know he was constantly thinking about the future. His eyes would glaze over, hazy blue like a cloudy sky, and I knew he was thinking about being the best; a world where he was number one, handpicked by L as his successor. Perfection. I think it was my presence that kept him grounded, so he wasn't completely lost in that ideal that he worked so hard for but never quite reached. It was hard on him, always falling a little short, but tasting success so close. I never really aimed for anything, so I never had a chance to be disappointed when I failed.

In all that time I knew him, Mello never faltered. He kept that intensity, while I just glided by, playing the eager sidekick. I never felt like a replaceable subordinate, however. Although Mello never vocalized it, I knew he valued me as a friend and companion. I was the one who kept him off the edge that lead to insanity.

I wasn't just there for moral support either. I was the one who looped the video cameras in the halls when we wanted to make a 3 a.m. cake run. I was the one who stayed up all night redoing Mello's evolution project because he'd decided to boycott it when the teacher didn't agree with his views of creation. Mello said my "geek speak" was better than my English, and I was more than happy to help with anything technological. (I saved his computer from crashing more than once.)

I wasn't afraid of making a fool of myself when I knew Mello needed to loosen up and laugh. I felt very comfortable about myself when I was with him; I didn't need to change. He accepted my quirks, and I accepted his. We embraced each other without judgment. He would mock me when he thought I was being an idiot, and I often became the butt of his jokes, but it never really bothered me. I knew he was just kidding, usually, and he knew I knew so that made it okay. Like I said, we took one another as is, defects, flaws and all.

It was the week of Easter. We didn't have classes, and they called it 'Spring Break.' It was nice to not have homework to do, although Mello was still studying like it was any other week, his same obsessive self. I think he was using this as a chance to get ahead of Near, or so he said. His only indication that he was going to relax a little was that he was talking about taking me to Easter Vigil. Me, inside a church? He should have figured it out by now that me and church were two parts of his life that shouldn't really mingle. I just mumbled my agreement, never one for confrontation. Anyways, I still had a few days to think up and adequate excuse for missing the service.

It was beautiful that day, the sun was shining. Or at least it was when Mello pulled open the curtains, flooding my cave with blinding light. I shrunk back further into my bed, where I'd created a backrest out of my pillows (and some of his,) and had been playing my Gameboy for the past six hours. I was still in my clothes from the day before.

Mello looked at me, scrunching his nose up in disgust. "Go shower, would you? You reek. And maybe go sit in the sun or something, you could use a tan; you're whiter than the sheets. People are going to think you're allergic to fresh air."

I hissed at him, snuggling deeper under the cocoon of blankets and continuing to tap away at my game. He snatched it right out of my hands. "I said get out!" He yelled, pressing the power button on the Gameboy and shoving it into his beside drawer.

My jaw dropped, both stunned and furious. "I hadn't saved in an hour! What the hell Mello?! Now I have to do the last seventeen levels over again! You fucking jerk!"

"Serves you right! Anyways, you're the one who always hovers over my shoulder telling me to save my work every damn minute! Go read a fucking book for once."

"You're computer is a piece of crap loaded with viruses! I had at least three hours left on those batteries, I wasn't thinking about saving because I didn't think you were going to come turn it off! God damn it!" I struggled to untangle myself from the blankets.

Once I was standing, Mello took in my attire, (a striped shirt, a pair of boxers, and my goggles,) and shook his head. I assumed my hair was sticking every which way, but I hadn't looked in a mirror for at least 24 hours, so I couldn't be sure. He sighed. "Go shower, you look like you were rolling around in a dumpster." He pointed towards the door, standing between me and the bedside table.

I considered whether or not I could tackle him and get my game; I decided that yes, I could, but after that I'd probably lose half my face when he pummeled me. Grumbling all the time, I grabbed my bag of toiletries, a fresh pair of clothes, and headed down the hall without even putting on pants. Mello looked rather smug.

I did as I was told, washing and dressing quickly. After I was clean, I marched back to the room, intent on spending the rest of my vacation in the spot I'd just vacated. Mello was stretched out on his bed, lying on his stomach. One of our textbooks in front of him. His bangs fell into his eyes and he didn't acknowledge my return, so I slunk over to his bedside table.

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist before I could reach for the drawer. I cursed under my breath, sending him a glare. He glanced up, one side of his lips turning upwards in a smirk. "Book. Outside. Sunshine." He commanded.

I grit my teeth. "How come you don't have to go outside, huh?"

"Because I'm not in danger of becoming socially retarded." Mello released my wrist, turning back to his book. He had a chocolate bar next to him, and he picked it up, ripping the foil and biting off a piece with his teeth.

"That's because you're already a retard." I mumbled, grabbing my vest and a pack of cigarettes.

I think he pretended not to have heard me. I grabbed a book off the shelf and headed outside to sit under a tree and take a nap until it was safe to come back inside and continue my game marathon. I ended up falling asleep for longer than I had expected, and the sun was starting to sink in the sky as I headed inside. I wondered if I had missed dinner. Oh well, Mello and I could just pilfer something from the kitchens later.

When I reached the room, Mello was nowhere in sight. He had set my Gameboy on my bed, which I figured was a peace offering, and I turned it on to start playing from where I'd last saved.

It was half an hour before there was a knock at the door. It couldn't be Mello; even if he'd forgotten his key he'd just pound on the door and scream at me to open it before he kicked it in. This knock was more timid, controlled.

Confused, I stood and went to the door and opened it. There stood Near—he hadn't come around since the hair dye incident, and it was hard to keep the surprise off my face. "Uh…Can I help you with somethin' Near?" I asked, not knowing what to say to him. Usually Mello was there with me when Near was around, and Mello always had some snide remark to make about the other boy. Now I was Mello-less and without an insult to draw off of.

Near looked like his thoughts were elsewhere; kind of like what happened when Mello was distracted and turned into himself. I think it was a genius thing. The albino twirled a lock of hair idly around his finger. I wondered how he hadn't pulled it all out by now. "Has Mello been by here?" He wanted to know, voice distant, like looking back on something through the layers rose colored glasses.

"He was here this afternoon." I offered.

"But he hasn't stopped by in the last hour?"

I was puzzled by Near's sudden interest in Mello's whereabouts. "What's going on Near? He break the law or something?" This very idea made me smile a little. It wasn't a completely absurd assumption.

Near's face was ever blank. "He left."

"Okay." I said, my smile faltering a little. "I could tell him you were looking for him when he gets back…"

"No Matt." Near shook his head a little. "L is dead." My blood suddenly ran cold in my veins. I stood frozen. "Mello left. He's gone."

L wasn't a person to me. He was a symbol, unbreakable, omniscient. Immortal.

He _couldn't_ be dead.

And more importantly, Mello couldn't have just left. Especially without telling me!

"No." I said, shaking my head without realizing it. A lock of red hair fell in front of my goggles, obstructing my yellowish vision. Everything looked…Off. "No, that's not possible. And Mello—he'll be back. He didn't leave."

"Matt…" Near said, and I thought for a moment I saw a hit on sympathy through his mask of apathy. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"He wouldn't just leave!" I heard myself yell, but my ears were plugged like I was on an airplane and couldn't yawn. "He has nowhere to go! HE'S NOT GONE, DAMN IT!"

I shoved past Near, running down the hallway. I took the stairs three at a time, yanking my goggles off of my eyes, dropping them on the ground somewhere between the stairs and the front door. I burst through the doors and out into the dying light of day. Darkness was closing in on the house.

For the first time, I looked onto the world without the tint of gold. Reality hurt my eyes.

* * *

_AN: This chapter was very hard for me to write. For some reason, I couldn't get the emotions to translate onto paper. I hope I conveyed what I was intending. =) I listened to a bunch of depressing songs, but I think that just made me uninspired. I didn't really_ want _to write this, but we all knew it was coming. I hope I did them justice._

_Review? I love you. Yes, you there, reading this. You rock my world._

_I have a feeling the next chapter is going to be even more difficult...Oh great._


	10. 09

I didn't go back inside, and Near didn't come out after me. I heard him follow after me down the stairs, but he didn't try to stop me. He probably knew that this was something that he couldn't just wave off like it was nothing; I had to _hurt_ first.

Mello was out there somewhere, and I was intent on finding him. So I started walking. I tried to think of all the places he had to go, but I could think of one that he would run away to. I decided that if he was going to be alone out in the world, than I would be too. I had a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, although I'd left my Gameboy in the room. Oddly enough, I didn't even feel like playing videogames right now.

Why hadn't he come to me? I'd always figured we would end up leaving Wammy's together, eventually. I never really knew what we'd be doing outside of the house, but it would be something together. Now I was without my better half, and helpless to do anything about it.

I ended up smoking my way through the pack of cigarettes in the first evening. I was so anxious, I felt worse when I didn't have a fag between my lips. It helped calm me down a little. But then it was dark, and I was all alone in the middle of Winchester, without any cigarettes. Mello was in the the same position as I was though—minus the cigarette problem—and that curbed the pain and fear. Even if we were apart, at least we were in the same boat.

I found a park bench and slept, feeling homeless and alone.

The sun woke me up the next morning. I had to squint against the brightness, missing the shield of my goggles. Everything was so vivid, each line cutting and precise. I'd never looked at the world like this before, and I wished I could go back to the way things were.

People were giving my bench a wide berth, I realized, as I watched people bustling to work. I was just some homeless kid to them. (I had just showered yesterday; did I really look that bad?) No one stopped to ask me if I was okay, or offer me a helping hand. I suddenly understood what it felt like to be alone in a crowd.

I needed a cigarette.

I wondered idly what Mello was doing right now. Had he slept out on the street like I had, or did he have a place to stay? Maybe he went back to the house! No, I quickly squashed the glimmer of hope. He wouldn't do that. Mello wasn't the type to say he'd do something, and then change his mind just because things got tough.

A few days slipped by. I had already spent all my money on a meal at a diner the second day. So far, I'd only been able to bum two cigarettes off some pitying person. I was having withdrawals, especially since I was under all this stress to find Mello.

I considered stealing someone's wallet—that's what Mello would do. I thought better of it though, and just continued to get by as best I could. I was thankful the weather was so nice, and I realized one day that the morning crowds were absent. It was Easter.

I went to church. No, seriously. There was this church that Mello went to, maybe twice a year. I'd walked by it a few times, so I knew where it was. I was surprisingly clean for having been living on the street the past few days, but I was still afraid that they wouldn't let me in. They didn't refuse anyone though, it seemed.

I guess my real reason for going to church was I had hoped that Mello would be there. It would be like those corny movies where two people meet up after so long an absence, (three days was damn long to me, okay?!) and their eyes would meet across the room. They would run to one another, embrace, cry, and then live happily ever after. The only changes would be that there would probably be no crying, and I'd be the one hugging Mello until he hit my upside the head and yelled at me to let him go. But other than that, it would be completely the same.

The church was pretty on the inside, and the alter had all these beautiful spring flowers around, bushels and bushels of them. I wondered if it was this way all the time or just on Easter. I sat in the back, and tried to figure out what was going on in the readings. Mello wasn't there.

After the service was over, people started to file out of the church. It was a slow process, people stopping to talk to the priest and to friends. Everyone was dressed so nice, I felt out of place, but no one seemed to notice my lack of formal wear. My pew was soon empty, and I leaned down to pull down that little cushy kneeler on the back of the pew in front of mine. I got down on my knees, folded my hands, and tried to remember what Mello had done the few times I'd seen him pray.

I closed my goggleless eyes, because it seemed like the respectful thing to do, and I was quiet for a long while. I don't know what I was expecting, perhaps God to tap on my shoulder and say, "Go on," but nothing came. I wasn't struck by lightning, or divine intervention for that matter, and I still felt alone.

"You were supposed to keep him with me." I mutter aloud, because I didn't think God would get the message if I just thought it in my head. There were so many thoughts mixed up in there, how would he know the prayers from the nonprayers? Nothing happened, so I continued, keeping my voice low and my eyes closed. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Just a moment later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. My heart soared; maybe God really did care about me. My eyes popped open, but it wasn't Mello standing there beside me. I couldn't keep my face from falling as I saw the last possible person I wanted to be there. Near.

"I thought you might come here for Easter Vigil." He said, his face blank as ever.

I pulled myself up from the kneeler, sitting down on the pew once more. The church was almost empty, apart from a few stragglers. Near sat down beside me, despite my look of distaste. Finally, I said, "How did you know I'd be here?"

He didn't even hesitate in his reply, "Because you're predictable, Matt. Right now you're without direction, and it's easy enough to see that you're grasping for whatever's left of Mello."

"I am not!" I said, louder than intended. A few people turned to glance at us. I lowered my voice. "I am not." I said again.

"Mello's not coming back." Near said, seeming indifferent in his own assessment. "He needs to do this on his own; it's not anything personal Matt. He was just friends with you all this time because it was convenient for him. It's no longer convenient."

"You fucking little liar!" I was already on my feet, grabbing Near by the front of his white shirt and dragging him up as well. I didn't care that we were turning heads now. "We're best friends! Just because you're an apathetic jerk doesn't mean that every relationship around you is fake!"

"Boys?" I looked up, and there stood the priest who had presided over the church service. "Is everything alright?"

I released the front of Near's shirt, clearing my throat. "Yeah, we're fine." I mumbled. "That was a great service father; we're just leaving now." Near followed me out without prompting; I could feel the priest's questioning eyes on my back.

Parked at the curb was one of Wammy's limos. I looked the vehicle with distaste; I hadn't eaten today, and here Near was driving around in a damn limo. "I want you to come back with me." Near said.

I must have looked at him like he was crazy. "You want me to go back to Wammy's?" I repeated.

"I want you to join me in searching for Kira."

"Fuck off Near."

He was unfazed. "This is serious Matt. Mello is looking for Kira too; we'll be on the same paths. You might run into him."

I considered this for a moment. Near might be a good steppingstone to getting back to Mello. It made sense, but I still didn't like the idea of working with my best friend's greatest rival. I shook my head no. "I don't think so Near."

"Then what are you going to do?" He prompted. "Live on the streets? That doesn't get you any closer to Mello. Are you willing to just throw your life away, over this? It's a great opportunity Matt; I could use your computer skills and you could use my connections. We're a perfect team."

"You know that I'd just be using you." I deadpanned.  
"And I'd just be using you." Near agreed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out my goggles, extending his hand.

I looked at it skeptically for a moment. Finally, I reached forward, taking the goggles gingerly and started to pull them back on over my eyes. The world was once again dulled by the film of yellow; reality dimmed. I nodded. "Let's go then."

I climbed into the limo first, and we returned to Wammy's. The house seemed different, cold and empty. No one was about. Wammy had been gone for a while, but now I knew he wasn't coming back. Mello was gone. There wasn't anything here for me now. "You'll probably want to eat something, and then I can debrief you on our plans." I just nodded, only half paying attention.

I went to my bedroom—not ours any longer—and it was just as I had left it. I had a spare pack of cigarettes in my bedside drawer, and I immediately lit up. I'd never had a problem with being alone before. Now it was just…wrong.

My Gameboy was where I'd left it on my bed, and I turned it on and started to play. I wasn't hungry, so I had no intention of eating like Near had suggested. Half an hour into the mindless videogames, my power light turned red and I saved before turning the game off. I leaned over to open my bedside drawer and retrieve some fresh batteries, peeling the battery cover off the back of the game system.

There was a note stuck over the batteries, scrawled on a green sticky note with a blue pen, folded over once to fit in the small space. "Sorry Matt. –M"

I just stared at the note for a minute, the numbness that had settled over me ebbing away and leaving the raw pain of abandonment that I had tried so desperately to suppress. I started to cry for the second time I could remember. This was a lot worse than losing my Gameboy.

* * *

_AN: For whatever reason, this chapter was a lot easier to write than the last one. Don't question my logic. One of my wonderful reviewers brought it to my attention that Mello left in December. My first thought: "Oh, his birthday's in December. That makes sense. Ah, shit." Okay, I'll tell you my logic behind picking springtime. For starters, I rewatched the anime where Roger is telling Mello and Near that L is dead. It was totally bright outside! Now, I figured, since it was sunny, it had to be either Spring or Summer. (L would be proud of my deductive reasoning.) Since they live in Winchester, you know, it's not really going to be nice weather in the winter. I considered going back to the last chapter and changing it to be accurate now that I had acquired the correct dates, but here's the thing: Then entire story would be ruined! Matt would have frozen to death on a park bench when he ran off for a few days, Mello would find out and kill himself, Kira would win and the world as we know it would end! So you can see why Spring is obviously the better choice. Yeah. Like I said, don't question the logic. Thank you for bringing it to my attention though. =) Sorry if the it bothers some people that it was inaccurate, I never intended it that way! Just...pretend? I claim creative license._

_And it's not that I don't _like _Near; it's that I find it annoying that he gets to live when all the cool characters die. Little prick. Next chapter might be another time skip-ish thing. Eh. I haven't decided yet._

_Reviews save my sanity, and get you quick updates! Winners all around._


	11. 10

_Your personality is fueled by the fascination you feel for life._

That's such bullshit.

"What does yours say?" I jump a little, not having realized that Gevanni was right over my shoulder. I hand him the fortune, and he lets out a thoughtful, "Huh." He gives me back the slip of paper and I ball it up in my hand and toss it for the trashcan. I miss, but don't get up to throw it away properly.

It was rare that we stayed late enough at the compound that we had to eat dinner, but tonight was just one of those nights. Linder had gone out and picked up Chinese food for all of us. I guess it just goes to show that America food sucks so much that they prefer to eat food from other cultures. I picked at the chicken (or possibly duck,) in my to-go container, the only one of the group using chopsticks. I was probably the only one who knew how to use them correctly, apart from Near, who was the fucking pharaoh and could do anything. He wasn't eating with us though, seeing as he only sucked up oil when his power cell started to beep.

There was some friendly conversation around me. No one really tried to include me; they knew well enough by now that it was a complete waste of time. I half listened, but pretended as though my mediocre meal was the most interesting thing in the world. The topic tonight was one they had beaten to death, about how Near was trying to get a conference with the president. It was a rough process, and we'd been jumping through hoops for three years.

While Near was a genius, no one was going to hand him billions of dollars worth of equipment and teams of professionals to go after Kira. He'd chosen the United States as his benefactor, and dragged me along for the ride. We ended up joining the FBI; half the stuff we did had nothing to do with the evasive Japanese criminal-killer. He was ever patient in building a reputation that would make him a trustworthy investment for the president. He wanted some special task force, which I thought was fairly selfish. He couldn't even legally have sex, (haha, Near, having sex,) yet he was already in charge of our branch of the FBI. Wasn't that enough?

I was not so patient. We were wasting time; I wasn't getting any younger here! I hadn't heard a peep from Mello, but I refused to accept that he was dead. He wasn't the type that would just roll over and die; I figured it would take a freight train to bring him down. Even so, I'd fear for the train before I worried about Mello. I kept thinking that he'd contact me, that this was all some big mistake and I'd wake up and be fourteen again, with Mello biting off a piece of chocolate beside me. No matter how many times I pinched myself, I didn't wake up.

I no longer had much of an appetite, and left my Chinese half uneaten on the desk. Some grease from the bottom of the cheap container was leaking on my papers. I could care less; I'd just print up fresh copies later. I lit up a cigarette, leaning back in my swivel chair. I tuned out the conversation around me, letting the sweet nicotine comfort my agitated nerves.

I would be stupid to just rely on Near to help me find Mello, so I'd been putting out feelers into various networks for years. I had no idea where to look. The most logical thing for Mello to do would be to seek the help of the government, as Near at done. But that wasn't really Mello's style. I kept trying to decide what Mello's style _was_. I knew he wanted to win, so he'd do anything to beat Near. How could he do that without financial backing? It was very puzzling. He'd need a lot of money, and a lot of influence. Most likely, he was doing something that would be hard for me to trace. He was doing something illegal.

Not that I was much better. Near no doubt knew of my less than lawful activities for cash on the side, but he never busted me on it. I only worked small scale, geek for hire so to speak. I was your go-to hacker. It wasn't personal; it was just another job to help pay for cigarettes and the newest upgrade for my laptop. I hoped that getting my foot in the door with the underground dealings would somehow get me in touch with Mello, but so far I hadn't crossed his path. Hell, I was just assuming he was in the States, (land of opportunity my arse,) he could still be in the UK for all I knew. Wherever he was, he didn't want me to find him. I didn't like to think about that.

I put my cigarette out in the ashtray on my desk, pressing the power button on my laptop to turn it on. Everyone else was still eating, but I figured if I got my work done early then I could go home and have a Grand Theft Auto marathon until I passed out sometime tomorrow morning. With these happy thoughts in mind, I picked up where I'd left off before Linder had brought us dinner.

I was soon busy with the latest assignment Near had handed me. It had nothing to do with Kira, unfortunately, but he had stressed the importance of this. The city had been having trouble with the mafia and gangs—if we could arrest some of the key players it would be a pretty big breakthrough for our department. Then, perhaps Near would finally get that audience with the president he had been hoping for.

At this point, I was strictly watching surveillance videos. We needed to know what we were dealing with. There were rumors of a local club being the main place where illegal deals went down. The only problem was that every time someone went in to bust up the meetings, we couldn't pin anything on anyone there. Near's plan was to get in contact with some of the mafia bosses by posing as Eraldo Coil, and to forge a connection where they could use the fictional detective. If we could catch them in a deal, it would be as easy as cake.

The problem I had to deal with was finding these bastards. In an ideal situation, they would contact Coil. No doubt Near had some plan of setting up a rumor where Coil had crucial information that the mafia would be too tempted to pass up. He was probably already on that, knowing Near, but he never told me anything unless I absolutely needed to know it. I was assuming that this was just busywork to figure out how many people we were dealing with, if it was any largely known bosses, and what sort of dealings they were involved in. I sifted through tapes from the club, bored after only a few minutes of the black and white videos.

I fast forwarded further into the late evening, where there weren't so many bodies dancing and drinking that I had to deal with. It turned out that there was a sitting area in the corner by the bar, with several couches and chairs set up in a sort of circle. I counted seven people crowded around there, and for whatever reason they stuck out to me. I couldn't see what they were doing, but their body language screamed tense and stiff; it was like the people didn't really trust one another.

I squinted as I watched the silent scene through the lens of my goggles, the grayscale bathed in golden yellow. Surveillance videos had crappy quality, and I could only zoom in so much before the figures were blurred beyond the point of recognition. Something was exchanged, maybe a box or a bag, it was too small for me to really tell. One man, sitting on the arm of the couch, was the recipient of a briefcase. I paused the video there, where the man had his hand on the handle of the case. I studied him for a moment; my goggles made his apparently light hair look blonde. It was longer than most of the men there, who all kind of looked the same to me. He was the only one different.

I zoomed in further, my heart beating a little faster in my chest. His clothes were all dark, and the poor quality did little for me to recognize his features. No, this was ridiculous. It couldn't be Mello. I pressed play again, but kept the camera zoomed in as far as I could on this one man. He took the briefcase, setting it on the floor out of my view. He pulled something out what I assumed was a pocket on his pants. It reflected a little, even in the pixilated video. I watched as he tore the foil, raising a dark rectangle of something to his mouth and breaking off a bite.

Everyone turned to stare at me when I stood up so quickly my chair fell over. My breathing was a little uneven, and I fumbled to get my vest off the back of the chair and pull it on. I didn't even bother to right the chair.

"Matt?" I was torn from my thoughts, my head snapping up. Near had reentered the room, his eyes boring into me. "Is everything okay?" His voice was emotionless, as usual. Everyone was watching me now, and the attention made me uncomfortable.

I opened my mouth to respond, but then closed it again. I held Near's gaze for a moment before looking away. He already knew. "Goodbye, Matt."

I just nodded a little, pulling open the drawer of my desk and put my handgun into the holster I'd built into the inside of my vest. I grabbed my pack of cigarettes, lighter, shut the top of my laptop and left without a word. Everyone else was silent as well.

Goodbye Near. I wish I could say it's been great.

My car was parked in the parking garage down the street. It was strange to think that I'd never be coming back here, but I knew it had been coming for a while. I might not even be able to track down Mello, but that didn't matter. I'd seen him. He was alive. I knew what he was up to. I couldn't go back to Near knowing that Mello was so close.

I climbed into my car, lighting a fresh cigarette and peeling out of the garage to head downtown.

Damn it Mello, you're not ditching me this time.

* * *

_AN: I kept thinking, 'I can't get them back together so fast...' but it was like there was a gaping hole in my stomach. I just couldn't keep them apart, I didn't have it in me. I could have added some filler, more about Near, the three years, yada yada, but I'm weak. This was really hard to write for some reason. I checked; Near starts the SPK four years after L's death. =D So Matt's 17 here. I don't know how I feel about this chapter. Eh. It was kind of rushed. I really want to work on the Mello/Matt relationship._

_Your reviews are what keeps me going. You guys are amazing, I'm so glad that people are enjoying the story._

_Next chapter should be fun. =3 May not be what you expect. (Okay, I_ hope _it's not what you expect!) Might not be able to update tomorrow though, I have some midterms that desperately need to be studied for. I'll do my best though! Thanks for reading everyone!_


	12. 11

I went to the club for the next two nights. Each time the sofas were unoccupied—I was afraid to go sit there myself, or they might see me and leave before I got a chance to grab Mello. I hung out at the bar, guzzling coke like it was my life source. I normally didn't like soda very much, but I was afraid that if I started drinking something alcoholic that I'd just keep asking for more until I was plastered, then I wouldn't even be able to notice if Mello showed up or not.

I was originally concerned that the bartender might be upset that I was loitering without buying anything expensive, but he could care less. It was a weeknight and the club wasn't very busy. My fake ID wasn't even glanced at twice at the door; they probably wouldn't have even cared if I'd given my real age. It was just 'that part of town.'

These few nights gave me plenty of time to consider what I was going to do when I saw Mello. He would no doubt be with his mafia buddies, so I figured that I'd have to somehow get him alone. The gun in my vest reminded me that I could be subtle but forceful to get him away from the crowd. All I had to do was press the gun against his back, and threaten to blow a hole through him if he didn't come along quietly. He didn't have to know it was me. All I had to do was kidnap him, and then I'd have my best friend back. I didn't really know what his reaction would be, to be honest, but I knew I wasn't letting him get away from me again.

By the third consecutive night, I was already known by name around the club. The bartender slid me a coke when I sat down, and I settled in for another long night of waiting and disappointment. I'd brought two packs of cigarettes with me because I needed something to do. Smoking kept me occupied and a little calmer, at least.

I hunched down into the fur of my vest collar, the club looking a little darker through the tinge of my goggles. I studied the patterns in the wood of the counter. I wondered if Near was watching me now through the cameras, laughing at my lack of success. I wasn't going to give up hope yet. I sucked more smoke into my lungs, absorbed in my thoughts. What would I say to him when I finally saw him? Would he reject me?

"Can I get a couple of vodkas? Yeah, thanks." I couldn't help but stiffen in my seat at the sound of the voice. It came from the other end of the bar, but despite the space between us, I'd heard it like he was whispering in my ear. A little gruff, deeper, but smooth as melted chocolate.

I dared to tilt my head to the side a little, and I could clearly see the couches out of the corner of my; some men were standing around them, seeming to have just arrived, talking amongst themselves. And there was Mello, at the bar. Shit, he looked better in person than on a surveillance camera.

He was taller now, hair a little shaggier than when we were young, but otherwise the same. He was clad in black leather; I wondered if it was sticky against his skin, like the leather in Wammy's limos. Wasn't it uncomfortable? I caught a glint in his eyes as he stared forward, icy blue as always. There was something different about him that I couldn't quite place. A sharpness, and a tension that had been absent in our youth.

I was already getting to my feet, leaving a few generous bills on the counter to pay for the service. I made a wide horseshoe to get to the other side of the bar, my eyes never leaving Mello. He seemed impatient, waiting for the drinks he'd ordered, tapping his fingers on the counter.

I steeled myself; I could do this. So I pulled out my gun, warm from being pressed against my side all night, and took a deep breath. I walked confidently up behind Mello, pressing the gun against his lower back, making sure it wasn't noticeable to anyone nearby. He visibly stiffened. "Just act normal." I tried to make my voice deeper so he wouldn't recognize me. "Come with me and I won't shoot."

"_Matt_?!" He hissed.

Ah crap, how'd he know it was me? I looked up—I'd been looking at his back—only to see that there was a mirror behind the bar that Mello was looking at me through. He met my gaze through the mirror, looking livid. I looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights.

I opened my mouth to respond, but saw another figure in the mirror behind me, a gigantic man who was lifting something up, a gun, and hit me right on the head with the butt of the pistol.

I don't remember much after that.

* * *

When I came back to consciousness, which was a slow process, several things became apparent fairly quickly. The first was that I was no longer in the club. I knew this for several reasons; one being that the ceiling in the club didn't look so crumbly and cracked. (Why am I looking at the ceiling?) Also, it was too quiet to be the club, and the air didn't reek of smoke and alcohol.

I also realized that my head ached like no other, and I tried to move an arm to touch it and check for blood. My fingers came back clean, but I noticed that my forearm was haphazardly bandaged, and some blood was leaking through. How the hell had that happened? It didn't really hurt; my headache was more of a problem than my mysterious arm injury. I felt like I had a really, really bad hangover.

The next thing I noticed—and this was a slow realization, mind you—was that I was naked. Since I wasn't exactly coherent at this point, I figured, oh great, I'd been raped. And they hadn't even had the decency to let me be awake and enjoy it!

I started to push myself up, but my head was spinning something awful. It took a moment to get my bearings, and I realized that I was on a bed. (This just reinforced the rape theory.) But wait, I'd been with Mello. And that freaking giant had hit me in the head. Why would they _rape_ me?

I checked myself for bodily fluids, and found none other than some drool that had been dribbling out of the side of my mouth. So that pretty much ruled out rape, although I still had no idea why I was naked. Or why my arm was bleeding. I was afraid to unwrap the bandage and find out.

When the room finally stood still long enough for me to see up from down, I realized that I was in a bedroom. (That would explain the bed—although, like I said, not exactly coherent right now. Even geniuses get confused when suffering from head injuries.) It was dark, and I realized that it was because there were no windows in the room. This struck me as odd, but I couldn't ponder it for very long without risking brain damage.

The room was small, the bed being the largest piece of furniture in it. Across from where I sat was a door, and to my left another door. Both were shut. Next to the first door was a dresser, and next to the bed a bedside table. It was all freakishly normal, apart from the lack of windows and cracks in the ceiling. There wasn't anything personal in the room though, not even artwork on the walls.

I crawled off the bed, taking my time in doing so; I didn't need to fall on my face and risk further injury. I used the wall as support, going to the door to my left, seeing as it was closer. The doorknob turned under my hand, and I was unconsciously holding my breath as I pushed it open—to be met with a bathroom.

I realized that I really had to pee, so this might have been a blessing. I went to the toilet, lifting up the seat. It was pretty gross, and I wondered if they had hard water or what because the stains were disgusting. After I was done I washed my hands with the soap and studied myself in the mirror above the sink. Other than being naked and my arm bleeding through the bandage, I looked relatively normal. I missed my goggles, and wondered if I'd be getting my stuff back soon. (I wasn't so concerned for my life at this point. They could have killed me already if they wanted me dead.)

I tried to part my hair and look for a bump, but I couldn't find an exact spot. It just hurt all over. Sighing, I left the bathroom and went to the other door. I was feeling steadier on my feet now. The knob turned in my hand, but the door wouldn't budge. I figured there was a sliding lock on the other side. I wasn't interested enough to try to knock down the door, so instead I went to the dresser and started pulling open drawers.

I had been hoping to find something suitable to put on, but the top drawer I opened was socks. I wasn't really so concerned with covering my feet right now. Next drawer was—leather? Oh shit, I must be in Mello's room. I opened the other drawers, just to be sure, and found more leather pants and vests. The only relatively normal things he owned looked like workout gear, and even those were black. All I really needed was some underwear, but even after pawing through each drawer twice, I couldn't find any. That was way more information about Mello than I'd ever wanted to know.

I'd been considering just going commando and wearing some of the workout clothes when I heard the lock slide on the other side of the door. I jumped back about a foot, although the drawers were still open and ruined my attempt at subterfuge. My eyes must have been as wide as saucers when the door opened, and in walked Mello.

He looked at me, then at the dresser, raising an eyebrow.

All I could think was, _Holy shit, he's not wearing any underwear right now._

Although I wasn't any better, seeing as I was, you know, naked.

* * *

_AN: This chapter was way too much fun to write. You know those midterms I mentioned last chapter? Yeah, I was thinking that line about Mello not wearing underwear the whole time. The mental image of Mello, with no underwear, was impossibly distracting. And hilarious. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I did! Next chapter will answer all the questions about why Matt's there, bleeding, and naked. (Yum.)_

_One of my wonderful reviews mentioned how awesome it would be if I ruled the world. I like this idea very, very much. First decree as ruler of the world: All readers must review, or else they will spontaneously combust. Heh. But reviewers will be rewarded with riches! So it's a pretty obvious choice, isn't it? You guys are great!_


	13. 12

"Hey."

I just gape at him. Three years of absence, and he says 'hey.' I was knocked out, stripped naked, given some sort of arm injury in his bedroom, and he says '_hey._' He looks completely nonchalant too. I'm tempted to cut him and check for metal. (Or Near in a costume.)

"Oh, I grabbed these for you." I notice for the first time that his hand is clutching the strap of my goggles. He tosses them to me, and I fumble to catch them and miss. I'm not exactly on top of my game at the moment.

Mello rolls his eyes. I bend down slowly to pick them up so to not black out from the head rush. When I straighten again, Mello has his arms crossed loosely over his chest. I start to pull on my goggles, but the strap rests against the sore spot on the back of my head, and I instead opt to keep them around my neck. "Thanks." I say awkwardly. "Uh, do you have my clothes?"

"Sorry, Rod wanted to destroy them." He shrugs his shoulders, not seeming very sorry.

I just stare at him. "My clothes…You destroyed my clothes?"

"_I _didn't. Come on Matt, don't be a brat." He looks annoyed now.

This was hardly the reunion I'd envisioned. I stumbled back a few steps to sit on the edge of the bed again, my head starting to ache. I rest my head in my hands, wishing that I could wake up and reunite with the real Mello.

Mello sighs after a moment, and I hear his approaching footsteps, but don't look up. I had expected (okay, hoped,) he'd to say something apologetic, but instead he grabs my injured arm and forces it to extend so he can see the bandage. "I always knew you were a bleeder." He mumbles.

He releases my arm and disappears into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a first aid kit. He sits down next to me, and I could care less as he grabs my arm again to start unwrapping the soiled dressing. "Do you want to explain what is going on?!" I demand, suddenly angry that he was being so cold. This was supposed to be a happy thing, and he was ruining it for me.

I'm looking at him now, so I see him raise an eyebrow, seeming a little amused. "You want _me_ to explain? You're the one who pointed a gun at my back Matt. Who the hell gave you a gun, anyways? Pointing a joystick and a pistol are two totally different things."

"I can shoot a gun." I respond indignantly. "Not like I was going to shoot you though." I add, just to be clear.

His lips turn up a bit at the corner in a smirk. "I know." He chuckled. "You're too much of a wimp to shoot me."

I stand up, probably a little too fast, because I'm off balance. I point a finger at him and try to look menacing, but I think I cringed from the pain in my head. "I am not." I said, but it didn't sound quite as forceful as I'd intended. Being naked wasn't helping my attempt at being intimidating.

With my arm extended and the bandages gone, I can see the full extent of my wound. A gash extends from the inside of my wrist to the middle of my forearm, a little jagged and looking deep. I just stare at it, wondering why it didn't hurt. It looks hideous.

"I numbed it while you were still out." Mello offers, seeming to know the root of my confusion.

I'm only speechless for a moment. "What the hell did you do to me?! You _cut_ me?"

"Matt," He seemed annoyed again, eyes stormy. "None of this is about you—"

"It has everything to do with me!" I explode. "I'm bleeding for fuck's sake!"

I can see Mello visibly grit his teeth, but he doesn't move to stand. He seems to be restraining himself. He inhales slowly before speaking, "Do you know why Near let you leave without even flinching?"

That confused me, and my arm dropped back to my side. I just stared at Mello for a moment. "How do you know about that?"

"He was using you Matt."

"I know that."

"No, you don't." Mello shook his head a little. "He was using you to get to me." I don't get it, so I remain silent and let him continue. "I bet Near hasn't had any luck with the Kira case, right?" He continues without confirmation; he already knows. "He was going to track you here. He was using you to get in contact with me."

I scoff. "How would he have…?" I look down at my bleeding arm, realization starting to set in. "No fucking way."

Mello just nods. "He had you chipped Matt."

"How is that even possible?!"

Mello just shrugs. "It's not that hard, just like giving a shot. He could have done it while you were sleeping and you wouldn't have even known the difference. Taking it out is a pain though."

I am stunned into silence. I knew that Near was a prick and I couldn't trust him, but this was low, even for him.

"Don't look so surprised." Mello's voice brings me out of my thoughts. "I don't even know why you went to work with him Matt; what a waste of time."

"Well I would have preferred working with you!" I finally say what had been gnawing at me insides during our time apart.

Mello just shakes his head a little. "That's not going to happen Matt."

"Why not?! You brought me here, didn't you? You have to let me stay!"

He looks irritated. "Get over here damn it; you're dripping blood on my carpet."

"Don't avoid the subject!" I remain standing.

Mello stands as well, grabbing me roughly by the arm and starts to wipe away the blood with a cotton swab. I wait for him to explain, but he remains silent. "You're not leaving me again Mello." I said, voice firm and low.

His hands still on my arm for a moment, but he quickly went back to work again. He's not looking at my face. "I'm not letting you get involved in this stuff Matt, it's too dangerous. Look, you're already hurt." He meets my gaze then, his eyes cutting.

I immediately duck my head, unable to take the full force of his eyes without the shield of my goggles. He's grabbed some bandages and is wrapping my arm. It's silent for a moment. "Mel," He freezes, and I know I've taken him off guard by the use of the childhood nickname. "I can't be away from you again."

I'm startled when his hand is suddenly on my chin, forcing my head up so I'd meet his gaze. He searches my eyes with an intensity only he could achieve. My cheeks warm with embarrassment; I don't really know where it came from.

"It's too dangerous for you." He says finally, breath warm against my already flushed cheeks. I want to look away but I don't think he'd let me.

"I don't want to be away from you anymore." I say honestly, my voice sounding a little hoarse to my own ears.

Mello's lips turn down a little, an action that affects his entire face; his cheekbones and jaw look sharper and more prominent in his displeasure. "Matt…"

"No, don't Mello. Just say okay. I know you missed me too."

That had been too pushy, because Mello suddenly dropped his hand, eyes narrowing. "I'll knock you out again if I have to." He spits out the words. "You're going to go back to your apartment where it's safe; you'll be just fine with all that money you rake in from hacking. There's no way I'm letting you join the mafia."

I glare, because it's easier to meet his gaze when I'm angry. "No, you can't keep ditching me! We're friends." I pause. "Wait, how do you know about my hacking business?" Silence. He's looking away. My jaw slowly becomes unhinged and I gape at him. "You've been keeping tabs on me. And you didn't even having the decency to come see me! You fucking jerk!"

I punch him in the shoulder, but there's not a lot of force behind it because I'm still off balance and my arm is starting to ache dully. Before I could even comprehend what he's doing, Mello has wiped out his gun; he pulls back the safety with a deafening _click_ and levels it with my head.

I freeze, my heart pounding all the way in my fingertips. Everything stills. It's hard to breath, and I realize that I'm shaking. Mello, my best friend, is holding a gun to my head. He looks murderous. I'm too shocked to move.

"Matt," His voice is deathly calm. "I'm looking out for your best interest—it's better that we're not friends. You could get into a lot of trouble with me."

I swallow around the lump in my throat. "Shouldn't it be my choice whether or not I want to take that chance?" I ask in a small voice. "Mello, I've…I've missed you."

The gun falters a little, but Mello steadies it again. He narrows his eyes, calculating, but says nothing.

"This is such bullshit!" I'm so frustrated with him, I feel betrayed. Hadn't he missed me at all? "Fine, shoot me then! Do it!" I snap. "I'd rather be dead than be away from you again! I have nobody Mello, you're it for me! So just _do it_!"

Mello still looks furious, but instead of shooting me like I'd been expecting, he takes his other hand and punches me in the jaw. I stumble back a step, taken off guard. I raise a hand, stunned, to touch my jaw. It already feels tender, but nothing's broken. He was holding back.

"You're such an idiot! Don't _ask _me to shoot you Matt, because next time I will!" Mello stomps off to his bedside table, yanking open the drawer and pulling out a bar of foil covered chocolate. He rips the foil and takes an angry bite out of the corner.

I just watch him, speechless for a moment. "Mel…I'm sorry," I say finally, dropping my hand from my jaw. It didn't hurt that bad.

"Why the hell are you sorry?" He demands, still peeved, taking another fierce bite.

I walk slowly around to the side of the bed, aware that he was eyeing me wearily. "I'm sorry that I didn't find you sooner."

Mello is silent, although I think I see his face soften a little. He takes another bite of chocolate, but isn't quite so vicious about it now.

I watch him chew, and can't resist a sigh. His addiction has reminded me of my own; all this emotional stuff is making me need some nicotine. "I wish I had my cigarettes." I say wistfully.

Mello seems almost relieved at the change of subject, and he opens his bedside table drawer again and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He tosses them to me, and my face must have lit up with pleasure. He gives me a lighter from the drawer as well.

The pack is open, but none of the cigarettes gone. I take one stick and put it between my lips, lighting up. The first puff of sweet smoke is calming. "Why do you have a pack of cigarettes?" I ask, puzzled. "You smoke now?"

Mello scoffs. "Hell no, that stuff is disgusting." He watches me smoke for a moment, and chuckles. "You look like such a nerd Matt; you're smoking, naked, with those stupid goggles around your neck. Do you have no dignity?"

I just shrug. "Not my fault you stole my clothes." I take another drag before continuing. "You still didn't answer me why you have these. You have a girlfriend who smokes or something?"

He laughs. "Yeah right." He bites into his chocolate again, crossing the room to his dresser. He picks out one of the pairs of work out pants and tosses them onto the bed. I grab them and pull them on. I'm almost tempted to ask for underwear, but refrain. I still wonder what his reaction would have been. Mello continues, "I just like to keep them around." He addresses my puzzlement over his possession of cigarettes again.

This still doesn't answer my question, so I frown. "But you hate it when I smoke."

"Yeah."

I wait, patience running thin, but in a very Mello-like way, he doesn't offer more information. "Why were they open?" I pester.

He seems irritated again. "Don't think that you can distract me with all these questions; you're still not staying."

"Just answer me and maybe I'll leave quietly!"

He scoffs. "I highly doubt that."

He's right, so I don't push that. "Come on Mel, we're friends. Just tell me why you have them."

He could have lied—I almost expected him to—but he didn't. His eyes turned downcast, and he cleared his throat. "I like…the smell of them."

This was about the last thing I had expected him to say. "You _smell_ cigarettes?" I repeat.

He looks up then, irritation crossing his face. "Well when you say it like that makes it sound creepy! I don't _smell_ them, I just like the smell!"

"That's the same thing!"

"It's completely different! Stop being so immature, it's not a big deal."

"Uh, it kind of is Mel. That's weird."

I swear his eye twitched. "You are so dense sometimes…" He mutters.

My eyebrows furrow. "What?"

He just shakes his head, and takes another bite of his chocolate.

* * *

_AN: Indeed he is dense. =3 I so wanted to get...farther, so to speak, with this chapter, but Matt wouldn't cooperate. He may be a genius, but his social skills are a little lacking. It's so funny, because I plan out what I want to happen, but then they start interacting and don't do what I tell them. xD I'm sorry I didn't upload this yesterday, I think the chapter a day thing was a little ambitious. I'll keep trying though!_

_I got so many nice reviews from the last chapter, you guys made my day! Here's your reward of riches, a new chapter! Much more valuable. Tell me what you think of these two; personally I'm in love with them both, but yeah. Do I do them justice?_

_Yes, Matt was naked most of this chapter. Ha. Only God knows why Mello didn't jump him. Hey, I'm only in Matt's head, after all. Damn him and his denseness._

_Edit: Reuploaded, same day. Fixed some mistakes._


	14. 13

"So," I start conversationally. I'm reclined on Mello's bed, propped up using two of his pillows as backrests. He hasn't told me to stop smoking on his bed, which is surprising, so I light up my second cigarette. I think my jaw is bruising, but I knew better than to complain about it. His sweatpants are surprisingly comfortable; I never knew how freeing going commando was.

Mello's sitting on the edge of the bed near my feet, his chocolate bar almost gone. He doesn't acknowledge my speaking, but I know he's listening. "What sort of work are we going to be doing together?" I break the silence that had settled. Truthfully, I was just glad to have him there with me.

"You're not working with me Matt, why won't you just drop it already?" I think he's attempting to keep his temper under control. (Attempting, being the key word.)

"Well, tell me what you do then."

"You know I can't do that."

"What about the people you work with?"

"Matt." He tries to catch my gaze, but I look away, taking another drag on my addiction. "Seriously, drop it. As soon as you can travel I'm taking you back to your apartment. You can't have any part of this stuff."

I breathe out the smoke slowly, but say nothing. I could travel, he knew it and so did I. Yet here I was, sitting on his bed, neither of us making any move to leave the other. Maybe, my mind reasoned, he had missed me too. I was going to take advantage of any time he allowed me to have with him, even if it just meant sitting together like this. It was comfortable. I liked just watching him, even doing something as simple as eating his chocolate.

"Hey Mello…"

"Hm?"

"Do you ever regret leaving Wammy's?"

"No." He responds without hesitation. "I needed to get away from that place, away from the rankings…Out here, I can be the best."

"What about me though?" I add wistfully. "You wanted to get away from me too?"

Mello frowns. "I already told you Matt, I didn't want you to get hurt. It's not safe for you."

"So you didn't want to leave me." I infer.

Silence stretches for a moment. He's looking at his chocolate, no longer eating. "No, I didn't."

I pull myself up so I'm sitting cross-legged just a few feet from him. I tilt my head inquisitively. Oddly, I feel relaxed enough that I don't need my goggles to cover my eyes. He was already shining gold, he didn't need the filter. "So let's start over now. Let's be friends again Mel."

He looks at me for a moment, seeming to consider something. He reaches forward, plucking the cigarette from between my lips and putting it to his own mouth. He takes a puff, and doesn't even cough. "Start over, huh?" He repeats, raising an eyebrow while breathing the smoke into the air. It looks oddly sensual as wisps curl up from his lips; I doubt that I look that good when I smoke. He seems to just be doing it to prove he can, but he doesn't need to. I know he can do anything.

He replaces the cigarette so it's dangling between my lips; my cheeks tinge with color as his gloved fingers brush my lips. "Tastes good." He adds, smiling.

"Uhh…" I inhale the wrong way and start coughing, which is a rare occurrence. I have to remove the cigarette and hold it between two fingers while I cough into my other arm.

Mello's laughing at me, which only makes me blush harder. "What?" I demand once I regain my breath.

"Nothing," He says, although his smile says differently. "I just forgot…You know, how things used to be."

I smile a little at that. "So you'll let me stay?" I wouldn't mind just hanging out in his room for the rest of forever.

"No." He says with a chuckle. "I don't think you'd fit very well in the mafia anyways. But that doesn't mean we can't still be friends; just on the side." He smiles again—it's nice to see him smile. "It'll be like living two lives."

I smile as well. "Like a superhero."

"Or a secret agent."

"Or a _super_ secret agent."

Mello laughs, shaking his head a little. The action makes his bangs fall into his eyes; this disappoints me, because I like his eyes when he's like this. Not so icy cold, more like a summer's blue sky. "I swear, just being around you makes me feel like a nerd."

"It's a gift." I say with a cocky smile. He brushes his hair back from his face, and I can't help but feel relieved.

Comfortable silence falls again. Even though Mello hadn't agreed to let me help him in his search for Kira, at least he had agreed to stay friends. I had his companionship; that was enough for now. I figured I could help him out with some low key stuff, hacking and computer work, while he stayed a front man. I wasn't really worried about him; he could take care of himself.

The only thing that bothered me was that he was worried about me. I could handle whatever he was doing here, and more importantly, I wanted to be his right-hand man. I wanted it to be like old times. Hopefully with time he'd come to have some faith in my abilities. Did I really scream 'I'm a danger to myself'? Probably.

"Don't sit like that." Mello's voice is nonchalant, and breaks me out of my thoughts.

"Huh?" Is my intelligent reply.

He places the last piece of his chocolate bar in his mouth, and I imagine that I see it beginning to dissolve on his tongue before he closes his lips. He sucks one finger clean where the chocolate had melted a little. He closes his fist around the foil wrapper, efficiently crumpling it. "I said, 'don't sit like that.'" He reiterates, speaking slowly like I might be retarded.

Maybe I am, because I don't get it—I look down at my position, legs crossed Indian style. "Uh…"

Mello sighs. "Remember when I mentioned modesty earlier?"

I just nod.

"Okay, think about it for a minute." He gets up, going to grab another chocolate bar.

I drag on my cigarette, adjusting his sweats on my hips. They're loose, but still about my size. It took me a moment to realize that, seeing as I was wearing no underwear, the sweats did little to hide my…third leg. I'd been naked through our earlier interactions, so I hadn't even thought about it, but seeing as Mello had noticed—and _pointed it out_—made me a little embarrassed.

Mello's watching me from where he's leaning against the far wall as this fact dawns on me and he seems amused when my cheeks heat up. I draw my knees up, pressing them together self-consciously. "It's not like you haven't seen that before." I remind him.

He rolls his eyes, snapping off a bite of chocolate. "Well yeah, but if you're going to go flaunting it, you might as well be naked again."

My cheeks are flaming now, and I clear my throat a little. I'm fingering my goggles, finally pulling them up over my eyes. It hurts the bump on the back of my head, but the security is worth the pain. The world is once again bathed in comforting gold.

Mello's laughing at me now; even at my own expense, it's nice to hear him laugh. "I can see you're still the same as always." He chuckles.

* * *

I hung out in Mello's room for about another hour. Once I recovered from my embarrassment, we were able to make some relatively normal conversation. Most of the talk was about me, which I was a little uncomfortable with, but Mello insisted on asking countless questions about what I'd been up to while we were apart. He refused to answer many himself, saying that "if I knew too much, it'd be dangerous."

I learned that the bald jerk who had hit me over the head was Mello's boss—apparently, he'd thought I was some sort of threat. (Seriously, would I shoot Mello? What an idiot.) He wouldn't tell me much else about the other guys he worked with. I couldn't help but be a bit jealous that they got to be with Mello all the time and I didn't.

Finally, Mello said it was getting late and he should take me home. I had no idea what time it was, seeing as he had no (visible) clock in his room. Maybe he instinctively knew the time, (I wouldn't put it past him,) so I just agreed. He lent me a tee-shirt, presumably more workout attire.

What I hadn't expected, was the big hoopla of getting out of this place. Mello insisted that I needed to be blindfolded; apparently their headquarters location was a big secret, beats me. I didn't put up a fuss. I was dead tired, all this commotion was exhausting. Here I'd suffered multiple injuries, reunited with my best friend, and visited for a while. That was more social stimulation that I was used to.

So I took off my goggles, letting them rest around my neck, and Mello covered my eyes with a bandana. I was tempted to ask him if he'd joined the boy scouts after he left Wammy's, because that was a damn complicated knot at the back of my head. I managed to refrain, or else I'd no doubt suffer a tongue lashing.

He led me with a hand against my back. We didn't encounter anyone on our walk out, and we made so many turns and took so many stairs and elevators, I lost track soon enough. I think he was doing it on purpose, only God knows why. I bet his room was right by the exit and he was just leading me around because he liked to see me look like an idiot.

I knew only a few things about this place. The first was that it was really big. The second was that, despite the apparent bigness, the hallways seemed very tiny. I knew this, because Mello was walking really close to me. (His other hand even brushed against my ass a couple of times on accident.)

I knew when we finally stepped outside, because the air smelled fresh and cool as compared to the stale quality inside the compound. Mello led me to a car, putting a hand on my head to help me duck into what I thought was the passenger seat. He shut my door, then went around to the other side and climbed in next to me.

We drove for a while before he told me it was okay to take off the blindfold, but I had a little trouble with the knots and ended up just pulling it off the top of my head, still tied. He was laughing at me, so I scowled, pulling my goggles on instead. The car was nice, but it was the nonscript sort of thing that you couldn't really tell the make or model unless you saw the back, and you couldn't tell the year for the life of you. A lot of American cars were like that.

"What about my car?" I ask, remembering my baby, the red Camaro that I'd driven to the club sometime earlier that night. (Had it really only been one day?)

"Don't worry, it's already back at your apartment." Mello reassures me. I knew the part of town we were in now. He didn't ask where I lived, and he drove there like he'd been there a thousand times.

We arrive shortly after, and he parked at the curb out front the dilapidated looking building. "I don't know why you live here." He mutters. "It's not like you're short on cash Matt."

"I'm not rich either." I remind him. "Anyways, I need that money to buy stuff for my—"

"Your laptop, I know." Mello interrupts me, rolling his eyes. I can see his lips are turning upwards a little though.

I smile. "I'll see you again soon, right?" I ask, trying not to sound as clingy as I felt.

Mello shrugs a little. "I don't know, is now good?"

"What?" I ask, surprised.

"We can hang out now."

"Uh," I hesitate. "I was going to…you know, sleep."

Mello laughs, but I can tell it's forced. "Another time then." He's not really looking at me, instead out at the road. I follow his gaze, but I don't know what he's staring at.

"Yeah, soon." I agree, clearing my throat. "So uh, see you."

I reach for the door handle, but before I can open it, I feel Mello's hand on top of my other hand. "Matt, hold on a sec."

I pause, and slowly turn towards him. Something in his voice made my heart beat a little faster, a desperation. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say a word he leans over and kisses me right on the lips.

It's not sloppy or wet, even though my mouth was open a little. I didn't see fireworks, or hear choirs singing. There was no fluff, it wasn't sweet and gentle. It wasn't rough or forceful either. It was what it was; a kiss.

He took my first kiss.

In that moment, I hoped he'd take my last one too; I never wanted to kiss anyone else.

* * *

_AN: Teehee. This chapter was very fun to write. (If only it was going to be this easy/fluffy the whole story. Dx) So only one person commented on my random change of tense in the last few chapters. Heh. So it's a funny story actually, I just started writing the last chapter, then when I went back through to edit I realized that I'd done the whole thing the present tense. Crazy, I know. This stuff really feels like it needs to be happening the present though. Always looking back on events is no fun. =) So I hope it's okay!_

_The response for the last chapter was stupendous! You guys are so encouraging, I just love reading your reviews!_

_On a side note, I need someone to help me with a quick question. In the anime, is it actually Mello who writes the names of the SPK members into the Death Note? Or is it Jack Neylon, the actually owner of the Notebook in the mafia? It wasn't exactly clear to me. I'm assuming it was Mello, but I want to be sure. Someone who knows want to send me a PM? Thanks so much! You guys rock!_


	15. 14

"I just thought I should be clear; I'm not really gay."

"Oh, okay." Mello responds from where he's lounging on my couch. He commented upon first sitting down that he believes something died under the cushions; that wouldn't actually surprise me.

I just stare at him, mouth unhinged. "You're...okay?" I say brokenly, watching him take a bite of the chocolate bar he'd brought up to my apartment with him. He licks a bit of chocolate from the corner of his lips, and I have to look away, swallowing with some effort.

"Yeah, that's fine." He reiterates. He has one arm extended on the back of the couch, and I can't help but think how nicely I'd fit there against his side.

I don't know what I'd hoped he'd say. (Okay, actually I did—I wanted him to say that he really liked me, and wanted to change my mind. I wanted him to say it was normal to have feelings like this for another man.)

"I'm actually not gay either." He breaks me out of my thoughts.

I try not to look completely stricken, but it's kind of hard to keep emotions like that inside. If he wasn't gay, then what was that out in the car? Were we going to be awkward now? Maybe it had just been a mistake. He seemed completely at ease; I tried to mirror his posture in the chair I inhabited across from the couch. I was too afraid to sit near him.

"Uh…Good." I say, because I have no idea what to say to that.

"So you like girls?" Mello asks, raising an eyebrow.

I thought that was what we'd just covered in the previous conversation, but regardless, I answered, "I watch straight porn."

Mello's lips turn upwards a little at the corners, and his eyes look far off for a moment. I wonder what he's thinking about, but suddenly as quickly as he'd gotten distracted he was back again, eyes focusing on me. He says nothing, seeming to wait for me to continue. He snaps off another piece of chocolate between his teeth. I really need to stop focusing on his mouth.

"So you like girls too?" I add, voice cracking a little—it was like going through puberty all over again.

"No, I like you." He's so nonchalant; I figure I must have misunderstood him.

"Er, you mean—"

"That means," He interrupts, seeming amused. "That I like you. Geez Matt, the look on your face…" He chuckles.

I just gape at him. "B-But, you said you weren't gay!" Maybe he's just messing with me. God, please don't let him just be messing with me.

Mello leans forward so he's resting his forearms against his knees. My living room feels a little smaller, and I wonder if I lean forward if I could—ahh! This isn't happening. He's my best friend, this can't be normal! "Matt," He says, voice firm. "I don't like you because you're a boy. It's not about being gay or straight."

I'm speechless, because he's being completely serious. He's actually sincere; I can see it in his face. "I-I…" Need a cigarette, but I can't just say that. I scratch at my goggles strap, because it's rubbing against the tender spot on my head, but I can't just pull them off. "Um…"

"Go get your cigarettes Matt." Mello says finally, laughing a bit.

How the hell did he know I needed a fag?! Was I really that obvious about it? Am I so easy to read? I stand a little shakily, and go grab my pack out of the bedroom. I rejoin him in the living room, realizing a little late that I forgot my lighter.

I'm about to head back when Mello pulls something out of his pocket—a lighter—and flips the top back to reveal a soft orange flame. "Need some help?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

I hesitantly withdraw one of the cigarettes, placing it between my lips. Leaning over, I put my hand on the side of his gloved one, holding his lighter steady as I light up. My eyes flicker to his face; he's watching me carefully.

I pull back, hand slipping off of his. I sit down on the couch this time, about a foot of space between our bodies. I take a long drag, calming a little in the process. "So…why do you have a lighter on you?" I ask, because that's easier to talk about than our earlier conversation.

"Never know when you're going to need to start a fire."

I inhale the wrong way and choke on the smoke, coughing violently. Why does everything he says sound like an innuendo? He probably doesn't even realize that what he's saying has other implications! (Or maybe he does—this is making my head hurt.)

I groan, because all this thinking is only aggravating my head injury. My coughing fit had calmed, and I dragged again.

"You're going to get lung cancer by twenty-five if you keep this up." Mello reminds me.

I tap the ash from the end of my cigarette into the ashtray I have placed on the coffee table specifically for this purpose. "Probably." I agree half-heartedly. It's silent for a moment, but I finally break it again. "Things are going to be weird now, aren't they?" I say, my voice sounding a little strained to my own ears.

"Probably." He says, smiling a little.

"Great," I mutter, mostly to myself.

"It doesn't have to be." Mello shrugs his shoulders a little, taking a bite of his almost gone chocolate bar. "You could just accept the fact that I'm not going anywhere, and there's no way for you to refuse my sexual advances."

My cheeks flush a little—I blame it on my red hair—and I manage to sputter, "What are you talking about? I can refuse you if I want!"

"You seemed to have a bit of problem refusing me in the car when I had my hand down your—"

"That's cheating!" I interrupt him, cheeks crimson.

"But you liked it." He adds, his smile wicked.

I duck my head, finishing my cigarette sulkily. I knew he was right, damn him.

"So are we going to bed soon or what?" Mello says finally, sounding bored.

My mouth hangs open a little—here just yesterday I'd been without him, now he wanted to share my bed? I didn't know if I should be scared or not. "I want to shower first." I say the first excuse I can think of. I needed to think for a little while.

Mello just shrugs; I put my burnt out cigarette into the ashtray and head off to the bathroom. I shut the door after me, and start to strip off my clothes. I can't decide what to do with my bandaged arm—finally I unwrap it, inspecting the wound a little more closely. I was pleased to see that it was no longer bleeding, although I'm not really sure whether or not getting it wet would be a bad idea. After debating at length, I decide that soap and water can't hurt. Whatever Mello had done to numb it was pretty good stuff, because it only ached dully, and felt kind of tingly.

My bathroom is pretty nasty; I don't actually own any cleaning supplies so I hadn't done anything to it since I moved in a couple of years ago. I don't think cleaning would help much though. The stains were probably permanently etched into the counter. I pull back the curtain that surrounds the bathtub, the shower head on the wall closest to me. It was a pretty cheap setup, and the mildew stains made the silver look like it was dingy white.

I turn on the water, feeling the temperature as it poured out of the tub faucet. At least my building didn't seem to have a problem getting hot water. When it was warm enough, I pulled up on the knob and the water spluttered out of the showerhead. The stream was uneven—maybe if I cleaned off some of the scum it would shoot straight, but I didn't really care enough to exert the effort.

I stepped over the lip of the tub, pulling the curtain closed after me. I'd made the water extra hot tonight, and soon steam was curling up around me, my skin flushing under the heat. I grabbed the shampoo, starting to suds up my hair. It felt good, and I didn't have to think about much of anything.

At least, until a very naked Mello pulled back the curtain. I nearly jumped out of my skin, my heart pounding all the way into my fingertips. I held one hand over my chest, breathing unevenly. "What the hell?!" I demanded, trying not to let my eyes drop to take in his body. Just look at his face, just look at his face…

Mello rolled his eyes. "I'm saving the environment." He said with a scoff, like it should be obvious, stepping over the edge of the tub and into the shower with me. "I need a shower too; we'll conserve water this way."

While I huddled in the corner, I couldn't help but stare. It was impossible _not_ to when rivulets of water were streaming down his body. His hair was darker when wet, appearing almost dirty blond. It was sticking to his neck and chest, some of the shorter pieces attaching themselves to his cheeks; one piece was even lucky enough to get stuck to his lips.

He brushed his hair back with his fingers a moment later, raking it away from his face. He looked at me, water dripping from every bit of him. "You're not having an aneurysm are you?" He asked, smiling a little. "It's not like it isn't anything you haven't seen before." He was paraphrasing what I'd said earlier—jerk. Sexy, naked, wet jerk.

I swallow with some effort. I watch on as he grabs my bottle of shampoo, squirting a generous pile onto his hand. He lathers it into his hair, thick, creamy…Oh, God. "Uh, I-I'm done, you can have it." I say, but my voice sounds a little squeaky. I scramble to pull back the curtain, but a strong arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back—back into a hard chest, among other things. Things I'd see but never actually felt against my skin before.

I can't help but shiver at the feeling. I was freaking out, I know. How could he be so calm? All of these emotions were so foreign to me. Yesterday, I would have described him as my best friend. Those feelings hadn't changed, only been added to with new ones. Were we still classified as best friends? Or something more?

"Matt," His voice is low, and even through the steam I can feel the heat of his breath against my neck. "Calm down, would you? It's not like I'm going to rape you…"

That would be impossible, because you can't rape the willing.

* * *

_AN: So I'm a little behind on updates, my apologies. I've been working on applications, taking tests, all that fun stuff. So I'm a little more than busy. (Unfortunately.) I have to give credit to my amazing friend Sam—she suggested a shower scene. (Yay for saving the environment!) This was a lot of fun to write, poor Matt is so conflicted. xD More fluffy stuff; just building up the relationship. I'm thinking about changing the rating to M...would you guys be totally heartbroken? Excited? It's really up to you guys how far I take it._

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Rachel, AKA rHeineken. While all the reviews I recieve are amazing, yours always make me smile. I think it was the "OH MY MARSHMELLOS." ^^ Enjoy!_

_And as for the question in the previous chapter, I think the general consensus was that Mello didn't write in the Death Note. Dang it, there goes my plot idea. xD I hate it when that happens...Oh well, I'll just have to brainstorm later. =) Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	16. 15

Mello eventually manages to coerce me into staying in the shower. (Not like I really had much say in the matter.) It isn't that I don't find him outrageously attractive—because I do—but the problem is that I am scared out my wits. It does sound a little ridiculous, seeing as he is my best friend and knows me better than anyone; I just have no idea how to go about dealing with these emotions. Mello seems so comfortable with his feelings. He has no problems voicing them or acting them out.

This is the first time in my life that I am afraid of failure. What if I screw this up? I could not only make a fool of myself, but I could drive Mello away in the process. He is so confident; I couldn't help but wonder if he'd done this sort of thing before. I couldn't bring myself to ask. I doubt I could handle the answer if it wasn't favorable.

I like to think of him as my Mello; no one else should be able to see him like this. His hands are so much better than a washcloth. I feel like I am going to melt and slide down the drain. He is working my body in ways that I didn't know were possible.

At first, when he'd offered—okay, demanded—to wash me, I was nervous. Was I supposed to do the same to him? My head swam with questions and irrational fear. He soaped up his hands though, and began working the suds into my back and shoulders like he was kneading dough. My panic slowly dissolved in pleasure, and all the tension started leaking out of me and washing away with the water.

"Have you ever gotten a massage before?" His voice sounds deeper; I figure it's from the overlay of pounding water.

"Nya…" Is as much as I could manage, unable to even open my eyes. I keep one hand against the tile to stay steady on my feet. I'm not so jumpy now, and not quite as freaked out when his body touches mine, on accident or otherwise. It just feels so good.

He chuckles, a warm sound that vibrates up from his chest. He seems to take the noise I made as an adequate response. "Don't get used to it." He adds, although I can tell without even opening my eyes that he's smiling. This is the Mello I'd missed—not the one pressing his knuckles against my spine, although that is really nice too—but the one who smiles and laughs.

I am anticipating his hands to head to nether regions, especially when he reaches around to my front to begin tracing the lines of my chest with his fingertips. His hands are slick with soap and water, and still as smooth as they had been in his youth. I am by no means muscular; I get about as much exercise as an overactive sloth. Since I tend not to eat regularly, (I'm a horrible cook, and forget to eat until I'm ravenously hungry,) I'm fairly lanky. I always thought I was pretty unattractive, but Mello doesn't seem too fazed by this. Maybe he's horribly farsighted.

His lips brush against the back of my neck, faint like a whispered breath. I shiver, breathing unevenly. His hand is flat against my stomach now, and he urges me back half a step so my back presses against his chest. I _want_ him to touch me now. All of my earlier hesitation has evaporated with the steam surrounding us. The water is hitting Mello's back dead on, so he's blocking most of the stream from hitting me.

"Matt," He says, and his voice is heavy with something I can't quite place. His hand presses more firmly against my knotting stomach and my rear presses against something hard. My breathing catches a little. "I promised I wouldn't rape you…So you're going to have to get out now."

I am a little surprised—and disappointed—that he is exercising such restraint. "Mel…"

He turns me around in the narrow tub, faster than I would have been able to maneuver on my own; if he hadn't had his hands on my shoulders I probably would have slipped. His lips crash down on mine with a fervor that had been absent in our earlier interaction. I can barely breathe he is so demanding, and I struggle to keep up. My hands grasp for something, anything, and end up tangled in his wet hair. Mello dominates the kiss easily, and I am happy to let him lead me through the motions. He's rougher than he had been earlier, forcing his tongue past my lips and down my throat. If I wasn't so turned on, I might have wondered if he was trying to suffocate me.

When he breaks the contact between our mouths, we're both panting for breath. My cheeks feel flushed, and even his face is a little red with lust. He licks his lips, an action that makes me ache with need. "Matt," His voice is husky now, and I can finally identify with the emotions in his eyes. "I'm not going to fuck you in the shower. Not tonight. So get the hell out."

I open my mouth, wanting to say that I have no objections, but he silences me with another scalding kiss before I could get out a word. "Shut up." He growls when he pulls back again, even though I hadn't said anything. "Get out Matt!"

This back and forth attitude is making me dizzy; what is his problem? He was the one who'd come and interrupted my shower in the first place!

Mello pulls back the shower curtain; he has one hand on my lower back and is pressuring me to hurry it up. I stumble over the lip of the tub, standing dazed on the tile, dripping water everywhere. Mello hadn't shut the door when he'd come in, so most of the steam is escaping out into the rest of my apartment. It is colder out here than in the shower. Mel promptly pulls the curtain closed again, presumably to finish his shower.

I'm shivering—half from cold and half from something else. In the mirror over the sink I catch a glimpse of myself. I look like a drenched, dejected dog. My hair is darker from the water—more brownish than its usual red—and matted against my skull and the back of my neck. I'm also sporting a major hard on. Great.

I listen to the pounding water inside the shower for a moment, breathing unevenly. He doesn't say anything, even though he must realize that I'm still here. Mechanically, I grab a towel off the rack and head into my bedroom. I dry myself, get reacquainted with my hand, and finally dress in a pair of boxers for bed. I want to rewrap my arm, because it's starting to ooze, but the mediocre medical supplies I have are in the bathroom and I'm too afraid to go back in there. I wrap the towel around my forearm, but since it's a full body towel it pretty much engulfs my entire arm.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of the shower, I'm finally able to think clearly. (It also helps that the blood had left my lower head.) Maybe…Maybe he was being considerate. That is weird to think about. But now that I am calmed down, I realize that it was about an hour ago now that I received my first kiss. While it hadn't been very wise of Mello to climb into the shower with me, I could see why it was completely ridiculous to have sex with him on the first night we were reunited.

I am much surer of my feelings now, but we didn't have to rush, right? We had all the time in the world.

The digital clock on my bedside table reads 3:24 a.m.; at first I am surprised but then I realize that it makes sense, seeing as I had first spotted Mello on the early side of eleven. It feels like we'd been together so much longer than just a few hours.

While I wait for Mello to get out I consider playing up my Nintendo DS, but I figure that starting a game would probably mean I'd be up for the rest of the night. I should get _some_ sleep, even if only to heal my aching head.

I climb under the covers—since I don't actually have a washing machine in my apartment I have to take them to the Laundromat down the street. Only God knows how long it's been since I last washed them, but the bed is familiar and comfortable so I don't really care. The sheets smell like smoke and musk; it's easy to relax and start dozing.

The bed dips down a while later under the weight of another, and I don't have to open my eyes to know it's Mello. I hadn't heard the shower turn off—I hadn't really been listening. The sweet tang of chocolate mixes into my heaven's scent. He's wearing the pants he had lent me. (I guess it was either wear that or go to bed nude, seeing as sleeping in leather would be ridiculous. I'm both thankful and disappointed that he didn't decide to go to bed naked.)

He doesn't say anything. He could have asked if it was okay for him to sleep here, but I had a feeling that even if I said no, he'd still stay. I am glad. He lies down, and pulls the comforter up. When I open my eyes, I'm staring into his. It's dark, but his eyes seem to have their own light to make solid contact with mine. I wonder if we are going to talk about what had happened earlier. Staring into his eyes, though, I had the strangest feeling that it didn't matter. We didn't have to verbalize anything. It is like sealing a secret deal; a pact without words that didn't need the touch of a pen.

He smiles a little in the dark, a flash of white teeth. Still not speaking, he moves over in the bed. I understand his meaning, and lift up my head a little so he can pull my pillow over towards himself. I lay down my head again and he does the same, our faces only inches away from one another. I can feel his warm breath against my face; he smells so much better up close.

His arm drapes loosely over my side, keeping me in place without holding me there. I don't want to move anyways. It feels so calm and peaceful. My eyes begin to close and I feel as though I can sleep comfortably tonight.

"Why is your arm wrapped in a fucking _towel_?" Mello interrupts my serene fantasy, scrunching up his nose with mild distaste.

I can't help but smile a little. Perhaps reality isn't so bad.

* * *

_AN: Great job ruining the moment Mel! Sheesh, what am I going to do with these boys? So, rating changed to M. I hope everyone feels comfortable with that. =) I would love to write Mello's perspective on some of these chapters, would you guys be interested in reading something to that sort? I can't really do that_ _right now_ _though for several reasons: The first is that I'm so stuck in Matt's head, writing Mello would be just about impossible. Also, I don't want to stall the plot to update stuff on the side. I'd like to keep this moving at the relatively vigorous pace I've set. I'm sorry I couldn't get this chapter up sooner! (I've actually had it half written for two days now. Eh.) Last few days have been horribly busy—I have a few big papers due next week, but I'll try to step up the updates!_

_Thank you to everyone who's given me such wonderful reviews. You guys are really the reason I keep writing. Reading your feedback is so enjoyable, you have no idea how much I look forward to all of your reactions to what I've written! So please, take a moment and tell me what you think!_

_On a side note, I now have a 'Matt x Mello' playlist on my iPod. It's rather pathetic that I'm that so into writing this that I need certain songs to get me in the mood, and created a playlist specifically for them. xD This was written listening to 'Tick Tick Boom' by The Hives. =D_


	17. 16

Mello is insistent on wrapping the wound in fresh bandages. I try to tell him that my arm is fine in the towel cocoon, but he would have none of it. He keeps mumbling something ridiculous about infection and grimy towels. Even though he's in one of his peeved moods now, I can't help but feel touched that he cares so much about my wellbeing. Or maybe he is just worried that I could bleed through the towel and get the bed all messy. Either way, it's the thought that counts.

Once he's satisfied with my arm, we go to bed again. While I had been lonely in his absence, I never knew how much I was missing. My apartment became the bubble where the outside world no longer mattered. I am so comfortable just being there with him again. I sleep deeply, for the first time in years not feeling alone.

It isn't the sound of a phone ringing that wakes me, but rather the shifting of the body beside me that's moving to get up. When I come to awareness, I know it's not my phone, because the apartment's landline had been turned off months ago when I forgot to pay the bill. I never used it anyways; instead I just rely on my cell phone. My ringtone is the Mario theme song—this one is very generic in comparison.

Mello leaves the bedroom to get what must have been his cell phone out of the living room. I can hear him talking, but I'm only half awake and can't really make out the words. My clock says it's only 6:30. It's way too early to be getting up.

Five minutes later Mello reenters my room, although instead of the loose sweats he wore to bed he's now in his leather. Some grey light is leaking in through the sides of the cheap blinds covering my window, and the shiny black pants catch the glare. He's pulling on his vest.

"I gotta go." Is all he says. There's not even a hint of sappy longing or regret in his tone.

I slowly pull myself up into a sitting position. My head hurts a little, but otherwise I feel okay. "Where?"

"Work."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Our single word answers leave the air a little stiff with awkwardness. What now? He's pulling on his boots; he must have dragged them in here and I hadn't noticed. I reach over blindly for the bedside table—but my goggles aren't there, my groping hand soon discovers. I must have left them in the bathroom. Well, damn.

"When will you be back?" I ask, trying not to sound as clingy as I feel.

"I don't know." He straightens again, making eye contact with me for a moment before looking away again. "Sorry Matt."

"You said that last time."

"What?"

"Last time you left—you left me the note." I reach over to my bedside table again, pulling open the drawer with some effort. The wood is warped, and it grates loudly while opening and closing. I pull out my old Gameboy, long unused. I peel off the battery cover and show him the note that's still stuck where he'd left it.

Mello is silent. He's not looking at me.

"You'll be back this time, right?"

"I hope so."

"No, you have to say it. Please, Mel, say it."

He looks a little frustrated now. "Matt, don't do this to me. I have work to do."

"Let me come and help then."

"Matt." He's gritting his teeth, so his voice sounds more like a growl than anything else. "Don't be a brat; I have a life you know."

I don't know why, but that hurt a little. "I know." My voice sounds small compared to his. "But I haven't seen you in three years. Can't we do something later…?"

"Sure, when I'm _not working_." He emphasizes, causing me to cringe a little. "This is my _life_ Matt. I can't just forget about it; I have to do this if I want to catch Kira."

"Kira will understand if you take a little break." I say, trying to make a joke. He looks murderous. I swear he wants to hit me, but somehow manages to refrain.

"Yeah, great idea Matt!" His voice is bathed in sarcasm now. "So while we're screwing around playing poker for goldfish crackers, Kira can keep killing people and Near can get ahead of me and catch him first. Aren't you just a goddamn genius."

"Mel, come on…I was kidding." I try to backtrack, but he'll have none of it.

"Do you have any idea how hard I've worked for this? This isn't just one of your videogames Matt, this is serious. Kira is all that matters. I'm not just going to blow it off for the likes of you."

I deflate—he didn't just pop my balloon, he jabbed it with a knife and laughed as it shrunk. Dejectedly, I look down at my old Gameboy. 'I'm sorry Matt.' I'm _sorry_.

Near's words from so many years ago resurface in the back of my mind, 'He was just friends with you all this time because it was convenient for him. It's no longer convenient.'

Friendship isn't supposed to be about convenience. I was the one who kept him sane, and he was the one who gave me companionship. It was mutual. He'd been without me all this time too—I never thought about what he was going without while we were apart. "I'm sorry I wasn't there." I say softly.

He seems taken off guard by this. "What?"

"Catching Kira and beating Near is all you think about, isn't it?"

"Of course not." He says with a scoff.

"Seriously Mel."

He frowns. "I…"

"I'm going to be selfish," I cut in. "And demand that you think about me too."

"Matt…" His face softens a little, thank God. "I don't know how this is going to work."

"We'll figure it out." I offer with a shrug, smiling weakly.

He actually chuckles—I've never been more relieved—and comes over to the edge of the bed. He puts one knee on the comforter, leaning over to press his lips against mine for a moment. He fists his hand into the side of my hair, and my heart beats a little faster. "You look ridiculous." He says, rolling his eyes. "Buy a brush Matt, seriously—"

I interrupt him with another kiss. He doesn't seem to mind so much. I have never seen Mello with stubble on his chin, I usually envision him so clean-cut; it scrapes against my face, rough like his kisses. He lowers me back to the bed and we enjoy the taste of one another for a while before he finally pulls back, breathing heavily. He glances to my clock and curses. "Damn Matt, you're going to be the death of me." His voice is good-natured now.

I smile a little, letting him climb off of me to stand again. He starts straightening his leather compulsively. I just laugh—it's not like I could get him out of that stuff even if I tried, and he looks fine. Better than fine. He's Mello, after all.

He sends me a sour look that silences my laughter, but I can't wipe the stupid smile off my face. We're not perfect, obviously we have our issues, but we are going to make it work.

"You have beard burn all over your face." He deadpans.

"I didn't know they make tents out of leather." I shoot back.

He sends me an incredulous look; I have no idea how he keeps so collected. Rolling his eyes, he turns for the door. "See you later." He calls.

I believe him.

* * *

He does come back, three days later.

Now that I don't have to go deal with Near, I have plenty of free time. Probably too much free time—I end up playing my videogames for hours on end. I only have one job lined up, a simple hacking gig where a company wants access to the files of another. Pretty low key; I end up using the money I'm paid on a new game that was just released.

I spend the rest of my time thinking about Mello, our new relationship, and wondering what he might be doing while he's away. He didn't give me his phone number, so even if I need to call him I can't. My arm heals up nicely in his absence and my head doesn't even hurt on the second day.

He arrives on a motorcycle that I can hear all the way up in my second floor apartment. I knew it was him when I heard it, even though we'd come in a car that first night; it was just so Mello. I meet him at the door before he has a chance to knock. He's holding one helmet under his arm, another in his hand. Apparently he was expecting me to open the door, because he didn't look ready to knock anyways.

He pushes the second helmet into my hands. "Come on, let's go eat. I'm starved."

And that was it. No kisses, no hugs, no gushy reunions. I didn't ask what he'd been up to in our time apart; he didn't offer an explanation. It didn't really matter so much. We leave, and go out to eat.

He comes back to my apartment, and stays until he's called away again. It goes on like this for a while. There's no rhyme or reason to his schedule. Sometimes he's away for days, sometimes only hours. He'll stay all night, or just for a meal. He'll drop by to pick up some chocolate, and leave shortly after.

He doesn't talk about his work with the mafia. I have a feeling that he's trying to keep his life there and his life here with me completely separate. I'm okay with that, as long as I have him at least some of the time. While you'd think that more is better, sometimes Mello is better in small doses.

When I think of Mello, I don't really think of someone with a great amount of self-control. I'm actually surprised that he lasted three weeks before jumping my bones. I'm not even sure why he waited so long. I think my feelings were pretty clear—I'd rather gouge out my eyes than be away from him again. (And I need those eyes to play videogames, so I think this shows my dedication rather accurately.)

I think what finally broke his resolve was when he walked into my apartment (I'd given him a key by this point,) and found me sprawled out on the couch in nothing but my boxers, playing my PS3. It must have been a hard day, because he was on top of me before I could extend a greeting.

It wasn't very romantic, not like I had expected it to be. Afterwards, I actually decided that making out was better than sex; it was pretty painful. We're both all sweaty and I am convinced that the couch is too much of a mess to be salvaged. (I'd actually ripped the corner of one of the cushions.)

My hips are all bruised from Mello gripping me too tightly; I have bloody half moon marks from his nails all over my back and sides. I am chafed in places that I didn't know existed and lying in a pool of my own cum. It is a very bittersweet feeling.

Mello's lying against my back, breathing against my moist shoulder. My face is smushed against the couch's armrest. His weight isn't entirely uncomfortable, but the position leaves something to be desired. I feel like I need to pop my back; it's kind of bending at a weird angle.

"You okay?" He asks, warm breath stirring the damp hair at the base of my neck.

"I don't think I can walk." I croak.

Mello chuckles; I can feel the sound vibrate in his chest. "Maybe I'll let you be on top next time."

This is not something I had expected him to offer, and I perk up despite myself. "You mean it?"

"Not really, I was just trying to make you feel better." He laughs warmly again. Note to self: Sex improves Mello's mood.

I sigh, but it's really hard to be upset when he's so happy.

He starts to lift himself off of me and the cool air of the apartment hits my sweaty skin, making me shiver. "Come on Matt, walk it off." He suggests, going to grab his pants. (On a side note, I have indeed confirmed that he doesn't wear underwear.)

"Can't walk!" I remind him, remaining slumped over on the couch. I reach for my pack of cigarettes on the coffee table—but my arm is about three inches too short. I continue to grope for my addiction, too exhausted to exert anymore effort.

Mello's laughing at me—bastard. "I'm not going to help you get them you know." He adds, crossing his arms over his bare chest, watching me with an amused expression. I'd spit on him, if I could reach that far.

"This is all your fault!" I whine. "You did this to me!"

"I didn't hear any objections."

"Like you really would have stopped even if I had complained."

"Good point."

"So get my cigarettes!" The tips of my fingers touch the side of the pack—and it pushes farther away. "Nooo!" I cry.

Mello rolls his eyes at my dramatics. He comes back over to the couch, putting one hand on my rear and forcing it down; I hadn't even realized it was still up in the air. I was probably permanently in this position. And I couldn't even smoke! What tortures. No way could I move. I hurt in places that definitely should not hurt.

I thought that since he had come over, that meant he was going to give me a cigarette, but instead he was just passing by to go into the kitchen and get some chocolate. Hypocrite!

I stretch further to reach for the cigarettes—and fall right off the side of the couch. I can hear Mello howling with laughter in the kitchen. I still can't reach my cigarettes.

I think God's punishing me for having erotic gay sex on my couch. Thanks, God.

* * *

_AN: Poor Matty. He would like to request that you include a cigarette with your review__—he deserves it, I think. This chapter didn't go the way I wanted; the beginning was totally different than what I had planned. It just...happened. I like it though. I was cracking up while writing Matt on the couch, poor bastard. I didn't really want to go into detail with their sexual endeavors at this point. I might write up what actually happened on the couch and post it as a seperate little one shot at some point, but it's not really relevant right now. We all knew it would happen though, so I just_ had _to torture Matt in the process. =D Humor is the medicine for a dull/unhappy life._

_Shout out to April, AKA Living in a fantasy, for leaving me such nice reviews. =D Also, she has some amazing Matt x Mello stuff that's very inspriational to me. It makes me all warm and fuzzy that she likes my story; check her out! All you reviewers are amazing, I wish I could thank each and every one of you but I'm afraid that once I start I won't be able to stop rambling about how awesome everyone is! You guys make this worth it._

_What, I actually have plans to write in canon next chapter? Well, damn. This chapter was written listening to 'All the Same' by Sick Puppies._


	18. 17

"Okay guys, everyone here?" I hear some affirmative murmurs in my ears. "Good, listen up; we have to watch out for their snipers midfield—looks like there's two at A, one at B. Keep your eyes up, they'll be picking us off otherwise."

"You sound like a fucking retard. Are you _talking_ to people on that thing?"

I cover my mic with one hand. "Mello, I'm kind of in the middle of something right now."

Mello scoffs; he hates it when I ignore him for more than five minutes. He stands up from the couch, coming up behind me to place his hands on either side of my keyboard, leaning forward so he can see the computer screen. I have to hunch a little because he's so close behind me. "What _is_ this?"

"It's a FPS." I say, forgetting to cover the mic by my mouth.

"_What_?" Two voices ask simultaneously, one behind me and another in my ear. One is incredulous and sarcastic, the other confused.

I cringe, and turn off my microphone completely. "Do you _mind_?" I hiss in Mello's direction. "I'm playing a game right now, and you're going to get me killed."

"This looks stupid." Mello says, sounding bored.

I'm used to this sort of thing by now, and roll my eyes. "Mel—"

"What is this, capture the flag? Are we twelve?"

"No, we're having a team death match."

"Sounds riveting."

"It is." I respond defensively. "Now get off my back, I'm busy."

"I was actually hoping you'd want to play with some bigger guns."

"Wow, and here I thought you'd run out of original ways to ask me to give you a blowjob."

"No, I'm serious." He hits the Esc key, and I'm thrown out of the game. "Although I might take you up on that later."

"Hey! I was—"

"How much do you know about missiles?"

"Eh—what?" I ask, distractedly trying to reopen it.

"Missiles, dumbass. Could you program some coordinates into a preset? Plot the course? Make it all timed?" He mashes in the monitor power button, and the screen turns black.

I'm irritated now, but seeing as he won't be ignored I turn in my swivel chair to face him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Mello smiles; he seems smug because he gained my full attention. Prick. "You're kind of cute when you're pissy." He muses.

I just gape at him. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Can't you just take a compliment?" He looks aggravated now.

"But it wasn't even a compliment!"

"Technicality; stop complaining so much."

"Go screw yourself!"

"That's why I keep you around—so I don't have to." He looks completely calm, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

"You're in my apartment!" I snap, not so calm. "You're lucky that I'm keeping _you_ around."

Mello rolls his eyes. "What, are you PMSing or something?"

I pick up the game case sitting beside me on the desk and chuck it at him—he easily ducks to the side and it clatters harmlessly to the ground on the other side of the couch. He glances over at the case, raising an eyebrow. "Aren't we violent today?" He muses; he comes towards me again and I automatically roll my chair back away from him—until I hit the desk. And I'm trapped.

Mello smirks and I know there's trouble. He puts his hands on the desk on either side of me, just as he had before, only this time I'm facing him. "What were we fighting about again?" He asks, sounding too wistful to be genuine.

"You were being—" I start to say, and he leans down to silence me with his lips.

He pulls back a moment later, blinking his eyes innocently. His bangs are falling into his eyes, but that doesn't dull their intensity. I'm a little dizzy. "Sorry, what was that?" He prompts, feigning an unknowing tone.

"Uh, you—" I start to say, this time with a little less fire, and his lips crash down on mine again. My fingers move up to unconsciously grip the front of his vest. I feel his hands fondle the strap of my goggles, and he pulls them off my head, musing my hair in the process. His lips are crushed against mine, demanding submission. I give him a little fight; at least until he got between my legs and pressed his knee to my groin. I can't resist a groan, and he knew then that he had won.

I really thought—okay, hoped—that he was going to fuck me in my desk chair, but of course he had to pull back right when I was getting exciting.

"Horny bitch." Mello says with a chuckle. My face is burning. He pats my cheek; only he can make the action feel so humiliating. "Come on, I need your help with something."

And I need his help with something—something in my pants.

He saunters off; he probably knew that I was looking at how his tight leather pants hugged his ass. Egotistical jerk. I bet that's why he let his weight settle on one hip—he looks surprisingly feminine from behind. I'm tempted to kick myself, but refrain for fear of looking even more like a fool. I stand, shamefully aware of how tight my pants feel, and shuffle over to where he's moved to sit on the arm of the couch. I sit down on the cushion.

Spread out on my coffee table is various papers, some notable ones being maps, others listing flight patterns and nonsense that really meant nothing to me. So he was actually serious about the whole missile thing. That's surprising.

I turn my gaze from the piles to Mello again and watch him for a moment. His face is serious now. He doesn't get like this very often, so I remain silent and wait for him to explain why he's showing me all of this. In the two years we'd been together now, he had worked relentlessly to keep me out of all the crap that came with working for the mafia. He only asked for my help on small gigs, or if he saw no other option. I was leaning towards the latter on this one.

"This is big Matt." He says at last.

Confused, I respond, "You've pulled off big stuff in the past Mel. Heists, trafficking, the works. How's this different?"

He seems to struggle for words for a moment—I'm surprised, he's never one to get tongue-tied. "It's…Finally happening Matt. I'm going to get the Death Note. This is what we've been waiting for."

No, I want to say, this is what _he_ has been waiting for. I've only been waiting for him to come to his senses, leave the mafia and come live with me. I don't say anything. He doesn't like to be told what he doesn't want to hear. We'd been over this enough times already.

In any other context I would have burst out laughing at the absurdity. There is no way to get the Death Note. But he is serious. I could see it in his eyes. That intensity, that obsession. I swallow with some effort. "How's that?" I ask timidly.

"With your help, of course. It'll be as easy as taking chocolate from a baby."

I look back at the stacks of papers. I could have said no, refused to help. I could have told him how I didn't want him getting hurt, how all of this was foolish and stupid. But I just smile, hoping it doesn't look as fake as I feel. "Sure, Mel." I say, because I could never refuse him. Not now, not ever.

"Great, let's start now." Mello says, so absorbed in his own little world of ambition that he doesn't even notice my reluctance. He reaches for a map, but before he can open his mouth again to start explain something to me, I stand. He looks a little surprised.

"Uh, let me just grab my cigarettes."

"Be quick about it." He says a little irritably.

I walk past him, going to the computer and stooping down to pick up my goggles from where Mello had dropped them on the floor moments ago. Moments ago, when he'd practically been in my lap, and everything had been perfect. I pull them on, not bothering to fix my hair as it is smushed down against my ears. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I wouldn't be able to hear whatever else he had to say.

I grab my pack of cigarettes and the lighter beside the keyboard—I always keep them handy when gaming. I head back to the couch, sitting down again. I fumble to get out a fag; my hands are not cooperating when I need them to. I light up, finally, and drag deeply. "Let's start."

Mello is watching me curiously, but doesn't say anything. Finally he just shrugs, and starts to show me whatever it was that he had wanted to before I had requested my addiction.

I went through the motions like a brilliant actor, playing my part to a T.

The Fates laugh while looking upon this day; this day that sealed my destiny, the day that I could have changed my future and his. That day I unknowingly crossed the Ts on my own death certificate.

* * *

He got it. He got it because I helped him. Nothing's going to be the same anymore.

* * *

_FPS = First-Person Shooter (A type of game.)_

_AN: This was shorter than I wanted, but continuing felt wrong. It needed to end here. I'm all sad now. =( Funny how my writing turns from witty banter to angst filled drama in a snap. This was way heavier than I intended._

_This is the timeline (manga, not anime,) the remainder of the story will be following (please inform me of any incorrect dates so I can prevent mistakes!):  
Exchange for the Death Note: Oct 18, 2009  
Police raid Mello's hideout: Nov 10, 2009  
Mello goes to visit Near: Nov 19, 2009  
Matt spies on Misa: Nov 29, 2009  
End: Jan 26, 2010_

_This was written listening to 'Your Guardian Angel' by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Great. Just great. Review to cheer me up? =D Kay, thanks._


	19. 18

Mello has one of those personalities where it takes a very special person to put up with him—not like I'm much different. I like to think that we were made for each other. Maybe some celestial blip intertwined us forever, our fates tangled from the beginning. There's no way to escape something like that. Or that's my excuse, anyways.

He is difficult sometimes. Like when he wakes me up at three in the morning, because he just got in and doesn't want to be awake alone. Or the times that he ran out of chocolate, and made me drive to the 'good store' downtown and get him more. Or when he purposely tries to distract me (often inappropriately,) from my games, and laughs at me when I lose.

I am difficult sometimes too. One time I nearly burned down the apartment because I was smoking in bed, (just like he always tells me not to,) and some of the ash caught the blanket on fire. We managed to stomp it out before the flames got too big, and Mello practically strangled me he was so mad. We ended up sleeping on the couch together—I woke up and he had left for work; the ruined blanket was gone and there were fresh sheets on my bed.

So we put up with one another. I just shrug it off when he is being an ass or a workaholic. It never really affected me more than on the surface. It is different this time. I thought that once he got the notebook, everything would smooth over. Naively, I actually thought that it would all end. This would be the key to victory; Mello could finally relax and focus on other things. (Okay, me.) Maybe we could finally live normal lives—or as normal as it can be when you throw two geniuses together, one an obsessive chocoholic and the other an introverted hacker.

I realize now that I wasn't just idealistic, I was stupid. I thought that I saw little of Mello before, but I was lucky back then. He rarely stops by now, and when he visits, it's short and far from sweet. Getting the Death Note was like adding fuel to the fire—gasoline poured over his fixation, and now he is completely absorbed in finding Kira. And here I'd thought it was bad before. That was nothing.

He killed most of the SPK. Even though I expected something like this, I found it to be low, even for Mello. Incapacitating Near's forces was the cowardly approach, instead of beating him fair and square. But Mello always was unconventional, if not simply underhanded.

It is a little scary to see a change like this in him. It is like taking the worst of his personality traits and amplifying them; the rare sides of him, like fleeting moments of thoughtfulness or affection, are gone completely. I couldn't help but be a little depressed.

Mello drops a laptop into my lap, startling me. I was absorbed in playing my DS, but he's looking down at me impatiently. Slowly, I save and close the game. He's scowling.

"I need you to get into the Japanese police force database."

'Please' and 'thank you' are apparently not required, although that's nothing new. "Okay." I respond, looking apprehensively at the screen.

This is my window to the outside world. Everything I know, I know because of this machine. It's my buffer; I'm only as close to danger as the wires allow. Maybe Mello knows that, and that's why he lets me do it. Maybe not. I could just be the computer geek whose skills need utilizing. I've never felt like such a tool.

"If they have any plans, I want to know about them. And keep an eye out for any more information on the Death Note."

"Sure." I say, and get to work. Because that's what I'm good for.

"I have to go." No surprise there. I don't look up, but I can hear him pulling on his leather jacket. "Email me anything big, got it?"

"Sure thing."

The door shuts, and he leaves.

* * *

It's two in the morning. Two in the fucking morning, and my phone is ringing.

I had worked for a few hours hacking into the Japanese police database, but seeing as I'm not obsessive compulsive like Mello, I got bored and decided to play Call of Duty for a while then go to bed.

It takes me a moment to realize what's going on—the Mario theme song isn't just playing in my head—and I practically fall out of bed while groping for my phone on the bedside table. I'm not fast enough though, and the phone beeps obnoxiously at me, mocking because I was too late.

I flip it open, and the screen reads, 'You have one missed call.'

I'm still trying to wake up, and extremely annoyed that someone thought it would be a good idea to call me in the middle of the night. I click onto the missed call list, and hit redial on the number from a few moments ago. It was probably a prank call—no one calls me anyways and I don't recognize the number.

It rings, one, two…six times, and finally I resign and hang up the phone. I stretch out on my stomach, fully ready to go back to sleep. My phone beeps again, announcing smugly that I have a voicemail. Why couldn't it tell me about this a minute ago? I'll dismantle it later, arrogant hunk of metal.

I flip it open again, not bothering to sit up. I punch in my password blindly and wait for the message.

"Matty," My blood runs cold. Mello's voice rings in my ears, but he sounds distant, like he's going through a tunnel. His breathing is a little ragged, but I can tell he's struggling to keep up appearances. He likes to do stuff like that. "I need you to come pick me up."

I'm already out of bed, wide awake now. I keep the phone pinned between my shoulder and my ear as the message continues, pulling on my pants with hurried movements.

The rest of the voicemail is disjointed, but he gives me an address that I repeat it again and again in my head so I won't forget. Fat chance of that; I keep hearing his voice in my head, over and over, strained and low. It seems like he is in pain, but he didn't say what is wrong.

I'm still pulling on a shirt when I run out the door; I get all the way down the hall before I realize that I forgot my keys. I've never been so scared in my life. Just the idea of something being wrong with Mello—it felt like my world was collapsing in on me. I couldn't lose him again, and definitely not for good.

I dash back to the apartment and grab my keys, knocking my change dish off the counter in the process. It shatters on the floor. It was cheap ceramic, and chunks scatter as far as the couch. I leave the mess, and run all the way the down the stairs to my car. I was never very good at following the rules of the road, but all inhibition goes out the window now as I race to the address Mello had given me.

I get lost. Of course, at a time like this, when it is most crucial, my sense of direction fails me. The streetlights above the car flit by in quick succession, making me dizzy. I look around for any sort of landmark that can point me in the right direction—then I see it. Smoke against a dark sky. But I see it, as clear as if it was noon. A lump rises in my throat. _Please, be okay._ I floor it, using the rising plume of black smoke as my anchor as I weave through the back roads.

I haven't talked to God in a while. (Not like he really talks back anyways.) I feel like I need some help now though. "Just this once." I say to empty car. All I can hear is the squeal of my tires against the pavement. "Let him be okay. Please, I need him to be okay." My knuckles are white as my grip on the wheel tightens. "Take me if you have to; just…just let him be okay."

I know I'm in the right place when I get there. Not because the address matches—there is no address anymore. The place in is in rubble, smoldering ash replacing what I could tell must have been a fairly impressive building. A stone settles in the pit of my stomach. I don't see Mello.

I climb out of my car, leaving the keys in the ignition. The burning rubble looks so much more intimidating without the shield of my windshield—I realize belatedly that I forgot to grab my goggles. I feel naked, completely vulnerable. Shouldn't a fire truck be here by now? Surely others would see the smoke and call 911.

I walk to the edge of the wreckage, remnants of the building crunching under my boots. I forgot to put on socks—I was in such a rush—and my boots rub uncomfortably against my bare feet.

"Mello?" I call. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. Desperate, weak. "Mello!" I try again, louder this time. Silence mocks me.

I climb over a pile of collapsed metal beams—the smoke threatens to choke me. (I never had this sort of problem with my cigarettes.) My eyes are watering. I want my goggles.

"Mello!" I yell, my voice catching on the single word. It lingers in the air for a moment before dying on my lips. I can't see farther than three feet in front of me. The only light I have to see by is the gentle glow of the dying fire, the smoke lit by some eerie red illumination in the sky.

I stumble forward, a numbness settling over me. He'd called me. He had to be okay—he'd been well enough to call me. It couldn't have taken me more than fifteen minutes to get here. He couldn't have really just…in fifteen minutes?

"MELLO!" I scream.

"Shut up, will you?" I was startled by the sound of his voice; I was torn between elation and dread. His voice, although attempting sarcasm, was weak. I could hear him wheeze.

"Mel…" I breathe, staggering forward until I can see him.

He is leaning against a pile of rubble—it is still burning dully. He is covered in soot and debris, blending well with the rubbish around him. A gasmask is lying in reach of his hand, but it looks like the plastic melted. He just looks up at me, silent.

I'm too stunned to speak. His face. It—It is…horrific. Half of his face looks like it melted, right along with the plastic of the mask. I can _smell_ his skin burning. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow back the urge to vomit. His hair is burned as well, strands sticking to the gnarled, red skin of his face and neck.

Mello looks completely serene, his eyes hooded. "It's really bad isn't it?" He whispers, voice hoarse.

I fight for the words. "No, it's…it's fine." I croak.

His lips turn upwards, just a little. "Yeah, I figured you would say that."

"I have to take you to the hospital—"

"No!" He says, with more force than I'd been expecting. His eyes are burning, but he doesn't move. "No." He repeats, quieter this time.

I drop down to my knees beside him. "Mel, you have to go to see a doctor."

"I'm okay…" He whispers. His breathing is more ragged now, and his head tilts back against his rugged pillow, and he rolls it to the side to watch me for a moment. He looks exhausted. I don't even know how he is still conscious.

"You're _not_ okay." I murmur, my voice feeling thick. My eyes are burning again.

"Matty…" He blinks, slowly. Even the simple action seems to pain him. He exhales slowly. "You…" He licks his cracked lips—I feel totally helpless. "You know how much I care about you right?"

A lump forms in my throat, and I struggle to speak around it. "Of course Mel…Come on, don't talk like that. Let's go, I have to take you to the hospital."

"No." His hand is suddenly gripping my wrist with a surprising amount of strength. His eyes, although cloudy with pain, bore into mine. "I want you to know…that I love you."

Some of the water that had been collecting in my eyes leaks out. I don't move to wipe it away—I blame it on the smoke. "Mello…I lo—"

"Wait," He interrupts me, his voice quiet but still enough to make me stop. "Tell me…Tell me when I'm better."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Promise me you'll tell me when I'm better."

I am crying. I lied; it's not because of the smoke. "Okay," I whisper. "When you're better."

* * *

_AN: There's a part of my soul in this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it. Updates will not be quite a frequent from now on—it's more difficult for me to write these emotionally heavy chapters, and I feel like they will require more thought and time. I already have plans for the next one though, and I'll get right on that. It's really hard to see how much pain Mello is; he does well to hide it, but that probably won't last very long._

_Super special thanks to OvenBased, for giving me such a wonderful, well thought-out critic of the story. =) It made my day. All of your reviews are amazing, and make writing this so worth while. (Reviews encourage me to update faster!)_

_This was written listening to 'Until the Day I Die' by Story of the Year._


	20. 19

Mello is in shock. At first, I thought that maybe his injury wasn't as bad as it looked. He was so stoic; I thought it must not hurt. Then I tried to move him to my car, and he finally realized what was happening—and that it was agonizing. Reality snaps into place; the layers of his stunned stupor peel back like a too-sticky Band Aid. He cries out in pain, no longer clearheaded and coherent as he had been moments before.

I help him to his feet, and he's unable to support himself. He's wobbly, gripping me a little too tightly for comfort, seeming to fear falling over. He's so pale, but it's hard for me to keep looking at him to check and make sure he's alright. His face is so horrific. Maybe I'm in shock too.

He keeps closing his eyes and gulping in breaths. I ask, again and again, if he's okay. By now he's stopped answering me. He's not okay. I'm not strong enough to carry him, so we shuffle through the rubble at an excruciatingly slow pace. (This is the only time I've regretted not working out. Mello's by no means a big man—he's smaller than me—but I doubt I could carry him for more than a few steps.)

I wish I had parked closer, but I know that was impossible. My car is built for speed, not for a four-wheel trek over piles of wreckage. It feels like the car keeps getting farther away as the minutes tick by. We stop often so Mello can rest, but I don't let him sit down. I doubt I'd be able to get him up again.

I keep one arm securely around his waist, his arm slung over my shoulders. His injured side is the one farthest away from me—I try to keep my hand low against his hip so I don't touch the wound. He starts to slip down against me, however, losing strength by the second. I struggle to pull him back up, grabbing his side in a desperate attempt to keep him upright. My hand comes in contact with something crusty, a little wet and sticky. (His clothes are hanging on by threads at this point.)

I can't resist a cringe, and expected him to cry out in pain by I get no reaction. "Sorry," I say, my heart pounding a little faster.

"What?" He asks, voice distant and confused.

My throat is suddenly thick, eyes burning. I stop us for a moment, pulling my hand away from his side while still keeping my arm around his back. I catch a glance of my palm, covered in flecks of blackened skin, blood and fluids. He can't feel his side. He can't feel his side.

I throw up in a pile of rubble to my other side. Mello's too out of it to realize it, thank God. I wipe my mouth on the back of my free hand, still queasy, and continue to drag him towards the car.

We reach it, finally, and I help Mello into the backseat. I don't even try to get him to wear his seatbelt; instead he just lies down, withering in a haze of pain. I adjust my rearview mirror so I can see him instead of the road, and drive back to the apartment. I don't get lost this time; we make record time.

I live in a fairly old building. That had never been a problem before. It was actually the only exercise I got, going up and down the stairs to the second floor. Luckily it's still the middle of the night, so no one's around to see me half-carrying Mello's body up the flight of steps. Anyone looking on would probably think I was carrying a dead body; he is so limp in my arms. Finally I have to lift him up completely. Adrenaline gave me a sudden burst of strength, and I carry him to the apartment. Mello is breathing heavily against my neck, mumbling something that I can't make out. He feels really warm—I'm not even touching his burns and it still feels like he's on fire.

I hadn't locked the door in my haste to leave, and luckily no one had entered in my absence. The neighborhood isn't the best, so that meant I'd been taking a chance, but at the same time no one probably expected me to have such expensive electronic equipment inside. Everything is as I had left it—the remnants of my change dish are still scattered across the floor.

I hobble over to the couch, outrageously off balance now that I am supporting all of Mello's weight. He groans as I lay him out on the cushions, raising a hand as if to cover his eyes. I grab his wrist to keep him from touching his face. "Mel, don't…" It's difficult to speak around the lump in my throat.

"It hurts." He whispers; I can barely hear him.

"I know." I say thickly. I _don't_ know. I really, really don't. "Hold on, I'll get you something."

I wait for a moment to make sure that he's not going to pick at anything before I run for the bathroom. I start pulling open cabinets and drawers, and finally find the first aid kit. My hands are shaking when I yank it open, sifting through the meager contents. A pack of Band-Aids, one small roll of bandages, a bottle of Ibuprofen, a packet of Neosporin, some rubbing alcohol. Great.

I have trouble getting the childproof top on the Ibuprofen off. My palms are slippery with sweat and Mello's blood. I can't bring myself to look in the mirror; I know that I'm whiter than a sheet. Finally I get the wretched thing open and I shake four pills into my hand, fill a glass with water from the sink, and go back to the couch.

"Mello, you have to swallow these." I sit on the edge of the cushions, and his head turns a little in my direction. At least he's still responsive. I focus on his grasping hands instead of his horrific features. He's trying to hold the glass on his own, but I keep my hand on it as well to make sure he doesn't spill all over himself. With some help, (I have difficulty propping him up, but we manage,) he swallows the pills.

"I'm going to check the Internet to see how to fix this." I say, because I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I'm scared, I can't take him to the hospital, and he's in pain. The Web was built for this sort of thing. He just nods mutely.

I can still see Mello on the couch from my desk just a few feet away. I boot up my desktop, because it's faster than my laptop, but not fast enough. I'm anxious, having to consciously stop myself from tapping my fingers against the keyboard. Finally I'm able to pull up my search engine, and type in 'how to treat burns.' Over five million pages pop up, and I click on the first one.

Everything I'm reading says that I need to take Mello to the doctor. He could die without medical treatment. I don't know how to take care of him; I don't even have a stocked first aid kit! Okay, breathe. I already know that I'm going to have to leave and get supplies, but I'm putting it off. I don't want to leave him alone.

From what I've read, I see there are a few things I can do. I run to the bathroom again, grabbing all the towels and washcloths I can carry and start soaking them with cool water. I don't care that I'm getting drenched—he needs this. I take the sopping wet cloths into the living room, and he jumps when I start laying them over the burned areas.

He relaxes after a moment, eyes closing. "Feels good…" He mutters.

I'm practically oozing relief. It doesn't look so bad—if I cover everything up.

I finish, and watch him for a moment. It looks like he's dozing, but I know better; he's struggling to stay conscious. "Mel," I say, with some effort. "I need to go out. I have to get supplies and medicine…"

"Just stay here." He responds after a moment of silence; his voice is all crackly, and it seems to take a lot out of him to speak.

My stomach twists with regret. "I can't. You're not going to get better this way. I'm so sorry Mel."

The visible half of his lips turn up in the slightest. "You're something else…" He muses to himself.

My eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"You're…" He clears his throat. He looks so tired. "You're the only person who hasn't hurt me…and you're apologizing."

My heart wrenches in my chest. "We're going to make it through this." I whisper. "Just stay strong, for me."

He nods, silent, and I leave him on the couch. I go into the kitchen, grab a frying pan out of the cabinet and place it on the burner, cranking it up to high. I fill up two glasses of water, and take them into the living room to place them on the coffee table within Mello's reach. Every site I'd looked at said that burn victims were in danger of dehydration. "Drink these, if you can." I encourage. He mumbles an affirmative, and I go into my bedroom and grab the thick wad of cash that I keep stashed in my old Nintendo DS box; I stuff it into my pocket. I'm going to need every cent of it.

I pull on my coat. (I hadn't worn one when I went out to pick up Mello, I'd been so rushed.) I realize for the first time that I'm covered in ash and soot from climbing around in all that rubble. I shrug it off. I go back to the kitchen where I'd left the pan on the stove. A quick glance into the living room proves that Mello is passed out with exhaustion, and isn't paying attention to me. Good. No one to talk me out of it.

Before I have the chance to over think things, I roll up the sleeve of my coat, then my shirt. I look at the scar from where Mello had cut Near's tracker out of my arm. It's faint now, a distant reminder of what was and what I'll never go back to. Now I'll have a new scar—this one I can honestly say is for the sake of a good cause.

I pick up the hot pan by the handle, and before I can think better of it, press the side of the scalding metal against the inside my arm. Every instinct inside my body screams—_pull it off! pull it off! _The pan sears my skin; I can feel it blistering, burning, swelling. I hold steady, trying to think about breathing. Trying to think about Mello.

Finally I can't stand it, and the pan drops to the floor with a clatter. Luckily, it missed my boots. I lean against the counter, panting. The mark on my arm is obvious, already turning red. I can see the fluid gathering under the skin in a series of angry blisters. I resist the urge to run over to the faucet and douse it with cold water. Mello has it so much worse, I remind myself. He'd do the same thing for me.

I roll down my sleeves slowly, shuttering as the rough fabric of my shirt rubbed uncomfortably against the fresh wound. This was just such a small fraction of what Mello was going through. I felt empathetic for him now, at least.

"I'll be back soon." I call to Mello as I head for the door. I hear him shift on the couch—so I know he's not dead—but he doesn't respond.

I leave the apartment, locking it behind me. I stop in the hall for a moment, looking at the flaking white paint on the door, listening. Listening for him to call, listening to the pounding of my heart. Listening to the voices in my head, screaming to not leave him alone. Finally, I turn and run down the stairs. I drive for the ER. He never said _I_ couldn't go to the hospital.

* * *

_AN: There has never been a more loyal friend. I hope that I accomplished what I was hoping to with this chapter. I'm not going to say anymore, I'd rather see you guys' reactions. =D So please share!_

_All the reviews for the last chapter were truly wonderful. I made several people cry with the last installment—while my first reaction is to be sorry, I've decided that I shouldn't be. I'm glad that the story is touching so many people. I'm couldn't be more pleased that the emotions I am intending are getting through in my writing. All of your reviews are inspiring, I cannot thank you enough._

_This was written listening to 'Lonely Day' by System of a Down._


	21. 20

Irrationally, I thought the hospital would be deserted and I would be treated quickly. It is the middle of the night—people don't get hurt in the middle of the night, right? Well, maybe in England they don't, but I live in LA now. When I drive up to the hospital entrance I see two police cars, lights on, and an ambulance parked at the curb. I find an empty parking space, and walk around the emergency vehicles to go inside.

If you are being treated in the ER at three in the morning, you usually fall into a specific category. There are the gangbangers, who got into a fight couldn't just walk away. There are the druggies, who ODed on something a little too potent. There are the car accident victims, who crashed a little too hard. And finally, there are the screaming kids and their mothers who can't wait until morning to go to Urgent Care. I am without a group to associate with, unless I want to make a new one—those who sacrifice their body for the sake of a friend.

There are two policemen (sorry, one is actually a police_woman_,) standing at the counter talking to the nurse. I hang back and wait my turn; they're talking in low voices so I don't know what they're saying. They finish after a few moments. The woman glances at me suspiciously before they both step aside. I give her a weak smile.

"What can I do for you honey?" The lady in scrubs behind the desk asks me when I step up.

"Uh, I burned myself." I say, starting to roll back my sleeve to prove that I am indeed injured. It's kind of hurting. "Cooking." I add, because it sounds weird to say I burned myself at three a.m. without a good excuse.

It looks like she could care less—she's probably seen it all. "Okay hon, I'm going to need you to fill out this form." She sets a clipboard on the counter. "Have you been to this hospital before?"

"No." I say, taking the clipboard and a pen.

"Do you have your insurance card with you?" She continues.

"I don't have insurance." I reply sheepishly.

She gives me a skeptical look. "You'll have to pay the basic fee upfront."

"I can cover that." I add hastily.

Her look clearly says, 'I doubt that,' but she doesn't say anything. "Bring that up once you're done." She gestures to the clipboard I'm clutching. "And we'll get to you as soon as we can."

I look over my shoulder at the crowded waiting room. There are probably over a dozen people sitting around—some groaning or bleeding—all waiting to be treated. I look back at the woman behind the counter. "Listen," I say, hoping my smile looks charming. My stomach is churning thinking about Mello alone in the apartment. "I've actually got a baby at home. I called my neighbor to come take care of him, but she has be at work soon—"

"Sir," She interrupts me. It's weird to think that I qualify as a 'Sir.' "I said," She enunciates—annoying bitch. "We'll get to you as soon as we can."

Deflated, I go take a seat in the corner. Mello would kill me if he found out I'd just told someone that he was a baby. (I am not planning on telling him about any of this.) There's a woman sitting on one side of me, a crying baby in her arms. She looks exhausted, and is bouncing the child mindlessly. It just keeps screaming. I lean as far away from her and the demon child as I can manage, and focus on the form in front of me.

'Name' I pause on this question, then pull out my wallet to see which fake ID I have with me today. I scribble Jason Cartwright down, copying the rest of the information that's written there. The address will lead them to a vacant lot down on the Southside, and the phone number has been disconnected.

Paranoid, I glance up at the two cops who are hanging out by the counter. The man says something to the woman, and leaves out the automatic doors a moment later. She continues to stand there, scanning the room. A shiver runs down my spine, and I bury myself in the questionnaire again. The baby beside me just spit up, I think; luckily it didn't get on me. The woman is getting up, I guess to go to the bathroom. Thank God.

'Do you have any medical allergies?' I'm allergic to stupidity and long waits. I write 'no.'

'Are you sexually active?' I think this is a weird question—is it asking if I am active during sex? I am, occationally, if Mello lets me be. (What does this have to do with an arm injury, anyways?) I write 'sometimes,' because that sounds better than yes or no.

'Do you smoke?' Ugh, they just reminded me. I'm suddenly itching for a cigarette. I wonder if they'd notice if I discreetly lit up. I could breathe the smoke on this plant here beside me—maybe it would suck up the smell. (Don't plants take carbon dioxide out of the air? Smoke can't be that much different chemically.) I write, 'I wish.'

'Are you currently taking any medication?' I want to write 'speed,' because it would be funny, but I'd rather not give that lady cop a reason to cuff me. Ever the truthful one, I write 'no.'

A girl sits down in the seat beside me. I glance up at her, only because I can feel her staring at me—she looks to be about seventeen, and her pupils are the size of the hubcaps on my Camaro. Her reaction is delayed, but after she notices me looking at her she giggles.

"Hi," Is her greeting, and she drags out the word on a breath. I've never met someone who can make a single word sound like an innuendo. That takes some skill. (I bet Mello could do it if he tried—oh God, Mello.)

"I'm gay." I blurt out, a little too loudly, because a few people turn to look at me. My cheeks tinge with color.

The girl giggles again. It's kind of obnoxious sounding. "I like to experiment." Okay—what?

"Uh…" I have no idea how to respond to that. I am, however, tempted to ask her for some of whatever she's on. Reality is a little too sharp at the moment.

Luckily I was saved the awkwardness, because a man comes over and grabs her by the arm, pulling her out of the chair. He sends me a glare. "Stay away from my girl." He growls, and the high bimbo giggles, giving me a little wave as she is dragged off to the other side of the room.

Who the hell would want to be around her anyways? I feel harassed. Psychos seem to come to the hospital at night—is it a full moon or something? I try to focus on the paperwork. I'm actually relieved when the mother and her screaming demon child come to sit beside me again.

After I turn in my clipboard I'm left to sit and wait like the rest of the sick and injured. I keep looking at my cell phone—I'd forgotten to put on my watch—and read the time every few seconds. It's hard to not think about Mello. I'm trying to _not_ think about how long it's been since I left him—one hour, thirty seven minutes and forty eight seconds—or what he could be doing right now—dying, ODing, wondering where I am—but it's impossible. Fifty four seconds.

It takes forever to be seen. A 'minor burn' patient (it still hurts, okay?!) apparently isn't top priority. I keep going to the desk and asking the nurse how much longer it should be. She's getting annoyed with me, so I stop asking, or else she might sabotage me and I'll never get out of here.

When I am finally called back, it is such a quick visit that I could have screamed. The doctor—or I think it he is a doctor, anyways—looks at my arm, cleans it, put some cool cream on it, and bandages it. He recommends that I take over-the-counter drugs for pain and put a cold compress on it, on and off every twenty minutes. I complain that it is really painful, and finally get him to prescribe me some Vicodin. He writes me the prescription, and another for burn cream, and I snatch them out of his hand. He gives me a funny look, and I try to smile, hoping I don't look as anxious as I feel. I would have run out, but I had to pay at the counter. It was ridiculously expensive for having been with the doctor for less than ten minutes.

That high girl with the alien pupils is still in the waiting room, and she gives me a wink as I pass. I barrel out of there before her possessive boyfriend can hit me. I drive out of the parking lot, waiting until I'm clear of the police cars before flooring it. I go to the nearest 24-hour drug store. It's almost morning by now; the smoggy sky is just beginning to streak with grey.

I go to the pharmacy section first, giving all of the information for 'Jason Cartwright.' While they're filling the prescriptions, I go to the aisle stocked with medicine and supplies. I clean out all the bandages they have, plus more over-the-counter drugs, disinfectants, and cold packs. I check, but the pharmacy isn't finished with the burn cream and Vicodin yet, so I do some grocery shopping as well. I grab all the chocolate I can find, but I know Mello's going to need sustenance too, so I get some milk, eggs, cheese and bread. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with all of it, but it sounds like a good idea to at least have it.

I pick up the prescribed drugs and pay the gum-chewing girl at the counter who'd been reading magazines off the rack. I'm starting to feel like everyone in this city is oblivious and incompetent. Can't she see that I'm in a hurry?! But she took her sweet time scanning each item while I waited on, trying not to give into the urge to strangle her.

I thank the heavens that my Camaro is fast, and I'm able to weave in and out of traffic along the interstate to get home faster. At least, until I see the red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I curse under my breath. I'm seriously considering trying to just lose them on the side streets, but that could backfire and I might lead them right to my apartment—and in turn, Mello.

I pull over to the side of the road, hands flexing over the steering wheel. I reluctantly roll down my window—the cop comes over to my car, standing just to the side of the window so I have to look back to see him. It is dark, and hard to make out his features.

"License and registration?" He asks me blandly.

"Just give me the ticket! I know I was going too fast!" I blurt out.

The police officer frowns a little. "Sir, I need to see your license and registration."

I fumble for the fake driver's license—Jason Cartwright sure is getting a workout tonight. I hand him the information out of my glove box and watch in my mirror as he goes back to his car to make a call. All the information will check out. County files are so easy to hack.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" He asks once he returns, handing me back my forged papers.

I'm frustrated—Mello could be dead, and this idiot won't just give me a damn ticket! "I was going too fast." I try to sound civil, but I know my voice is strained.

"The limit is sixty-five back there, and I clocked you going ninety."

I bite my tongue to resist a smart-ass remark. "Sorry, officer." I force myself to say.

"I'm going to have to write you up." Finally!

I doubt the cop has ever seen someone so anxious to get their ticket. I snatch it from his hand, much as I had the prescription from the doctor an hour before. "Thanks," I add blandly.

"Watch your speed out there." He reminds me, and I'm finally allowed to drive off. I force myself to go the limit, at least for a few blocks.

When I reach my building I throw the car into park before I come to a full stop, causing the Camaro to jerk violently in protest. I gather up my bags of supplies and sprint up the stairs to the second floor. It's hard to get my keys to fit into the lock—my hands are shaking. Finally, I burst into the apartment. My heart stops.

The living room is empty. Two full glasses of water sit on the coffee table, and multiple towels are thrown haphazardly onto the floor. It's been almost three hours. My heart starts to beat again, but it's pounding now. I can barely breathe. "Mello?" I call into the silence.

I drop the bags—so much for the eggs—and check to make sure that he hadn't fallen over onto the other side of the couch. No one's here. "Mello!" I yell, and run down the hall to check my bedroom, but it's empty as well. I reach the bathroom, my hand closing around the knob, but it won't open. It's locked. "Mello!" I yell, banging on the wood. "Open the door!"

There's no answer. I force my heart to stop beating so loudly so I can listen; I can hear his labored breathing on the other side. "Mello…Mel, come on. Open the door. Are you conscious? I have medicine for you. I have chocolate." I plead weakly, fearing the worst.

I don't hear any movement inside, just the breathing. "No." His voice is weak, but cold as ice, causing the blood to curdle in my veins.

"I had to go, I'm sorry." I think he must be upset because I left him alone. "But I'm back now. We can get you all bandaged, you can take some pain pills and eat some chocolate…we could sleep, come on, it'll be like nothing's changed."

"Everything has changed!" I'm startled by the force in his voice, but it dies quickly. "Just leave me alone." I hear him groan on the other side of the door.

I rest my forehead against the wood—the cold is oddly comforting. "Mel...you have to let me in." I try to sound firm.

It's silent for a long moment, but then I hear him move inside the bathroom. My heart skips a beat, and I think that he's going to open the door—then I hear him retching. "Mello," I try the doorknob again, as if it might have magically unlocked in the last minute. "Are you okay?"

"No," He says, when he's stopped vomiting. His voice sounds strained. "I can smell it…" I hear the toilet flush. "It's making me sick."

"I'll clean it up, just let me in. I'll take care of you first, and then I'll clean the bathroom." I try to keep my voice from shaking. "You can sleep in the bed Mel, you'll feel better."

"No!" It almost sounds like he's crying. My heart breaks with the sound. "I can smell my _face _burning off! Get the hell away from me; I'm not letting you in!"

I didn't know that being worried about someone could physically hurt. I know he's serious, so I run into my bedroom and grab my pocketknife out of the bedside table drawer. It takes me a minute, but I'm able to pick the lock on the bathroom door. It's more difficult because my hands are so unsteady. I know Mello can hear me doing it, but he doesn't say anything.

I push open the door, and my stomach twists at the sight that meets me. Mello is curled up on the floor, his burned side pressing into the cool tile. The bathroom smells like vomit—I can see he's thrown up a few times, and couldn't quite make it to the toilet bowl. His eyes are pinched closed, and he doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"Mel…" I breathe, my voice catching on the single word.

"Don't—don't look at me." He mutters.

I swallow with some effort. "I won't, promise." I whisper, kneeling beside him. Carefully, I place a hand on his good shoulder. I help pull him up slowly, and he leans into my chest, resting his head against my shoulder. We're both silent we embrace one another.

He doesn't cry. I don't try to tell him that it's okay, if he needs to. I think he is hurt beyond the cure of tears. This goes deeper than burnt skin. We are kids again, back at Wammy's. He is a failure again. We just hold one another for a long while.

Finally, he mumbles, "I'm sorry I didn't let you in."

"It's okay."

"I didn't mean to shut you out." I know he's not talking about the door.

"You didn't; I'm here now."

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You're never going to be without me—don't think about that."

"I screwed up, bad."

"We'll fix it."

"Matt," Mello turns his face into my shoulder. I can feel his exhale, it shakes his entire frame. "Stop being so nice; it's not going to be okay."

"We'll make it through Mel. We always do, together."

"I don't know how to win anymore."

"Maybe it's not about winning."

He pulls back slightly at that, looking up at me. "But I have to win." He says, that manic look back in his eyes.

I swallow, focusing on his gaze instead of his burns. "No, you don't. And we already won Mel—we beat Near."

"What?" He looks confused. "I lost the notebook…I lost…everything."

I smile, weakly. "Not everything."

He just stares at me for a moment. Silent understanding passes between us. He reaches up to gently touch my cheek, his fingers skimming over the stubble that has appeared there over the night. "I did win, didn't I?" He actually looks peaceful, tired. "I got you."

* * *

_AN: This chapter is pretty long compared to what I've been posting lately. I felt like I owed you guys a quick update after the amazing responce from the last chapter, and this one just wrote itself. I tried to weave a bit of humor into Matt's visit to the ER. =3 I hope that lightened the mood a little before I got all heavy on you guys again. I kept thinking, 'I should say more about how is arm is hurting!' but Matt wouldn't let me. He wasn't even thinking about his arm. He astounds me. Was Mello okay? I had some iffy moments with him, and rewrote the end about sixteen times. I'm pleased with the result though!_

_All those reviews inspired me to write this chapter. Keep me inspired? I also added a poll to my profile with questions about what you guys would like to see me write once Tinted Gold is finished. (Noooo! I will never let it end! D=) But anyways. We have a ways to go though, don't worry! I just want to start thinking about it, at least. Please vote, it would mean a lot to me!_

_This was written listening to 'The Great Escape' by Boys Like Girls. Also, I just have to throw this out there, fanfiction keeps smushing words together!! (During my editing on here, the space between some words, but not all, magically disappears.) What the heck is their problem?_ Stop smushing words, damn it! They have feelings too!_ Okay, done. =D Review._


	22. 21

"It'll make you feel better—come on, my leg is falling asleep."

"I'm not moving. Get used to it."

I sigh a little. I am able to maneuver myself back to lean against the bathroom counter, which is a little more comfortable, but not much. The pins and needles sting. Mello is practically in my lap, refusing to let me move. He's in one of his possessive moods—which I usually don't mind so much—he even slipped a hand up my shirt to rest his palm against my chest. He likes to touch skin. If he wasn't injured, I'm fairly certain I'd be naked by now.

"I'll be quick." I plead after a beat of silence. "I'll just run to grab the supplies, and bring it in here."

"No." He responds blandly.

"But I have narcotics. And chocolate. Come on Mel, chocolate."

"I don't want anything." He's sulking. I think that maybe he's trying to be a man about it, and not admit that he needs me to clean him up. But he really, really needs me to clean him up. (And the bathroom, for that matter. It reeks in here.)

I resist the urge to sigh again. "Okay, how about this." I can't believe I'm negotiating with him—why can't I just be firm for once? "We'll get you out of your clothes," He really is a mess, "And we can take a cool shower together. You'll feel better if you're clean, then I can bandage you better."

He scowls. "I don't want to shower."

"I'll make sure you don't fall; I can hold you up Mel."

"I'm not going to fall!" His temper flares. I'm actually relieved to see a glimpse of the old Mello under all those burns. "I can stand up on my own." He mumbles.

I backtrack. "Of course you can." I try to appease him. "But I'm needy and want to hold onto you."

"Stop being an ass—I just don't want to take a shower, okay?"

I attempt to keep the frustration I'm feeling out of my voice. "We have to do something Mello."

"I'm fine here, thanks." He replies shortly.

"Stop being an ass." I shoot back, recalling his words from moments before.

"Stop being a smart aleck."

"I will drag you into the shower if I have to."

"Even injured I could _still_ beat you up."

"Keep in mind that I control your sex life."

"That's what you like to think." He scoffs.

I gape at him. "What?! I do!"

Mello just rolls his eyes. "Idealistic fool." He pats my cheek, mocking me.

I feel my face heat up. "Why won't you just admit—for once—that you need me to take care of you?"

Mello suddenly falls silent, looking away from me. I sense a shift in him, and follow his gaze to see that he is staring at nothing. "I can't get up." He says finally, voice barely audible.

"What?" I ask, surprised.

"It hurts to move—just let me stay here."

"How'd you even get in here Mel?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

I feel the sudden tension in his body. He hates admitting to weakness. I catch the hint. "Okay." I agree softly.

Silence falls again, uncomfortable this time. Mello gently flexes his fingers against my chest and I can feel his nails scrape lightly against my skin. I shiver a little. "I'm going to get you some medicine, and then we'll shower." I'm no longer giving him an option in the matter. "You'll feel better. I promise."

He just grunts, not convinced, but I think all the talking wore him out and he doesn't have the energy to argue anymore. Carefully, I slide my arms around him, adjusting my legs to gather myself. He doesn't help any—he's still a stubborn bastard—and lets me do all the work of getting up. Somehow I manage to scoop Mello up and place him on the counter without toppling over. He looks a little surprised as well. "Have you been holding out on me?" He raises an eyebrow. "There are plenty of acrobatic positions I've wanted to try—"

"Yeah, no." I interrupt him, rolling my eyes.

His lips turn upwards a little in a smirk. "We'll see."

"Whatever. Are you okay? Get undressed, I'll go grab you some medicine."

Mello adjusts himself on the counter—I don't miss the small cringe that he tries to cover up—and finally he nods. "I like this new side of you Matt." He's making fun of me now. "So bossy." He smirks. "I didn't know you had it in you."

I roll my eyes. Too bad he's hurt, and I can't just hit him. And he knows that his injury gives him immunity; he's going to use that against me. I don't give him the satisfaction, and turn to head into the living room.

I pick up the bags from where I'd dropped them by the door, and take them to the counter. I broke three eggs when I let the bag fall to the ground, but the rest are salvageable. I place the groceries in the refrigerator and grab the prescriptions. I get the correct dosage of Vicodin, grab a glass of water, and head back to the bathroom. I walk in on him—literally—peeling the clothes off his body. It's more than a little sickening.

He glances up at me as I re-enter, one hand clutched around his rosary. He's paler than he was when I'd left him, and he looks a little queasy as well. I swallow with some effort. "Take these," I command, and thankfully he stops picking at the clothes plastered onto his wounds. He doesn't even offer me a smart ass remark, just does as he's told.

His clothes are in tatters. I hadn't considered, though, that the fabric would actually become embedded in his wounds. "I'll…I'll undress you." I say finally; another opportunity for him to make a crude remark, but he's silent. I have a feeling that his moment of witticism has passed, and he's sullen again.

I start with the easy part. Since his clothes are in pieces, half of his leather shirt (the half that didn't get burned onto his skin, that is,) comes off with ease. The rest is actually stuck to his wound; it seems to have dried there. If I had known this would happen, I would have taken it all off earlier.

I haven't been this close to his wound yet. I'm finally able to get a good look at it—not like I really wanted one. It's gnarly, and I'm trying not to be sick. I can still smell his vomit over by the toilet, and I try hard to think about other things. I grab a piece of leather clinging to the contorted skin, and start to peel it back. Mello sucks in a breath, making a sound in the back of his throat. The small strip is dried onto to his skin with caked blood and puss, and coated with another layer of grime. Well, damn. I really need to clean him up and make sure that none of this gets infected.

I continue picking off pieces of his shirt—I can tell Mello is trying to keep silent. His fingers are laced into my hair now, the rosary forgotten on counter. Since my head is level with his midriff it works out well, and keeps his arm out of the way as I pull the leather out of his torso. Every time I do something a little too painful I feel his nails flex into my scalp. I hate to do this to him, but I have to if I want him to get better. He knows that; that's why he hasn't said anything.

My hands are slimy with blood by now, covered in flakes of charred skin and remnants of rubble from the explosion. I've gotten all the loose pieces out, and there's only a few left in his side—then I'll have to move on to his shoulder. These last bits are embedded deeply in his burned skin, and I actually have to use my nails to pick at a corner out and pull the piece out completely. He cries out for the first time, and I immediately stop to make sure he's okay.

His face is sickly pale, but he shakes his head. "Don't stop—I won't let you start again." He says, breathing labored.

Reluctantly, I continue my work. I don't remember reading about this sort of thing on all those burn sites. It is a long and tedious process, but eventually I'm able to get rid of all the clothing. (His pants come off easily enough—although they were pretty torn up, at least the leather wasn't buried in his skin.)

When I'm finished Mello sits, shaking and naked, on my bathroom counter. I'm a mess of grime and gore, (it's all under my nails,) and he looks about ready to pass out. He leans forward, wrapping his arms tightly around me. He buries his head against my chest, breathing unevenly. I embrace him in return, careful not to further irritate his wounds. "Matt," He rasps out. "More pain medicine."

"You can't have anymore for another few hours…" I say helplessly.

His shoulders sag a little, and I swear I hear a whimper from his lips. Frantically, I pull back to check his expression to make sure he's okay. His usually sharp eyes are cloudy with pain. "Soon." I promise, swallowing with some difficulty. "Let's take a cool shower, that'll make you feel better."

He doesn't say anything, and I reluctantly pull away from him to start the water. I can't make it cold—I read on all those sites that 'lukewarm' is the best temperature for burns. I forget why cold is bad, but that doesn't really matter. We won't test it.

I start to strip off my clothes and toss them into a pile on the floor. (I think some of them land in the vomit—not like it matters, this outfit is already trashed. Maybe that'll help cover the smell a little. Thinking of all the things I still have to do is a little overwhelming, so I try not to. Think about it, that is.)

"What's that?" Mello's voice startles me; he's been so quiet while I was undressing.

"Huh?" Is my profound reply, and I follow his gaze to the bandage wrapped tightly around my arm. "Oh, that."

Now that he has something else to focus on but his pain, he seems more alert. He frowns a little. "Matt…What did you do?"

"Skiing accident." I say the first thing that comes to mind, regardless of the fact that it is a really, really stupid thing to say.

"You don't ski." He deadpans, in no mood for games.

"No, I meant," I try to backpedal. "I was skiing, with my Wii. You know, those games where you move around and stuff. I totally fell over and hit the coffee table. Bled like a bitch."

"Matt." His gaze is sharper—I don't know if I should be glad that he's cleared a little, or scared for my life. "One, you don't have a Wii. I know, because I wanted to get you one last Christmas but you told me that gaming is all about being inactive and having to move around defeats the purpose. Second, _skiing_? Do I really look like I'm _that_ out of it?"

I sigh. "Okay, okay…I'm sorry. Listen, I crashed the Camaro last week, and I—"

"Stop lying!" He yells.

My mouth drops. "How the hell did you know I was lying?!"

"Because it's physically impossible for you to crash that car! You're too good at driving; you could be a stunt driver if you got off your lazy ass and got a real job. Now tell me what you really did."

Am I really that easy to read? How does he know so much about me? I always thought he wasn't paying attention. "I-I burned it. Cooking." I add the last part, because it's true. Sort of.

"You don't cook. Matt, I'm getting mad now—"

"But it's the truth!"

"—And if you don't tell me I'm going to string you up by your dick until you scream for—"

"Shouldn't you be in excruciating pain right now?!" I ask desperately.

He actually growls at me. "It helps to think of other things—like how I'm going to kill you if you don't tell me _what you did_." His voice is deathly low. I cringe.

"I burned it." I say again.

"And what did you burn it on?" He asks, voice almost normal now. He shifts himself on the counter, seeming to try to get comfortable but unable to do so. He's still so pale.

"A frying pan."

"I'm serious Matt."

"I am too!"

He studies me for a moment, but then it occurs to him, the only reason why I would have been touching a scalding hot frying pan. His gaze darkens. "You didn't. Matt, tell me you didn't."

"I…didn't?" I reply hesitantly.

"Matt!" He cries. "You fucking idiot! Don't you have any sense in your head at all?!" He starts to climb off the counter, but he's unable to support himself and I catch him before his wobbly legs give out. He glares at me for the assistance. "Don't you _ever_ hurt yourself for me. You _idiot_."

"It was my choice." I defend my decision weakly.

"No, it wasn't! You're not allowed to make decisions anymore, because obviously you don't know where to draw the line. You _injured_ yourself, Matt. What the hell? Are you suicidal?"

"Of course not!"

"Well don't ever do it again! I mean it!" I'd never seen him this worked up over something. I knew he'd be upset, but I didn't expect this.

"I won't." I say softly, although I know that might not be true. I just want to pacify him so we can get him feeling better.

He stares at me for a moment—I know he can see through my promise. "We'll talk more about this later." He says finally, looking tired. "Let's make this shower quick, I'm beat."

I'm more than willing to change the subject. I help Mello into the shower, keeping a hand on him at all times to make sure he's steady. He just stands under the water, shivering, despite it being lukewarm. The water runs muddy with the grime washing off of him. I ignore the fact that the bandage on my arm is getting soaked. I'm quick to suds up my hands to start washing him.

First I clean out his hair so it actually looks blonde instead of dirty yellow. Washing his body is a bit more difficult, because I don't want to irritate his burns more than necessary. "God, just do it already." He mutters, and hesitantly I start to suds up his wounds, being as gentle as possible. Mello has closed his eyes by now, swaying a little, but otherwise still and silent. He doesn't make a sound, and soon the water is running clean. He looks a lot better, but I still need to dress his wounds.

"Can't we make it colder?" He pleads, leaning against the tile as the water hits his injuries.

"No, sorry Mel." I quickly rinse myself off but don't have time to wash. He groans as I turn off the water.

"Felt good…" He mutters.

"If you let me take care of you tonight, I might let you sit in a cold bath tomorrow." I have no idea if this would be okay for his burns, (I'll have to check online,) but he seems to like the thought and allows me to help him out.

I'd used most of the towels earlier to put on Mello's burns, and there's only one body towel left. I let Mello use it, and grab the hand towel to at least dry the drips off my body. We head to the bedroom, Mello leaning heavily on me. We walk slowly, and I can tell he's trying to move his upper body as little as possible, but just walking seems to jolt his wounds.

"I want more pain medicine." He says when he sits down on the edge of the bed, his eyelids heavy.

"Okay, let me bandage you up first." I compromise, stalling for time. I didn't want to overdose him, but it wouldn't hurt to take a little more, right?

I help him lie down on the bed, having laid down his towel first so he wouldn't get the bed wet (or bloody). He looks like he dozing, so I take advantage of the lapse and grab a pair of boxers out of my dresser, pulling them on my still wet body.

I get the entire bag of supplies out of the kitchen and bring it into the bedroom. He is half asleep when I start to dab his wounds with a real disinfectant—we can hopefully avoid infection. He wakes up quickly, cringing. "Bastard." He mutters.

I ignore him and continue, using more than thirty cotton swabs by the time I was finished. I'd gone through the entire bottle of antiseptic, which meant I'd need to get more the next day. (Or I guess it was today, now.) His wounds just look angry red, not quite as horrible as before. I get out the burn cream and start to apply it to his side first, then his shoulder. Mello starts to relax—I can feel that the substance is cold against my fingers, so it must feel good. When I'm finished, every bit of the injury is covered in the white cream. Bandaging is more difficult, especially around his face, but I don't want him to touch the wounds so I end up wrapping it at an angle around his head. He's too exhausted to be irritated with me. After an hour of doctoring, I'm finally satisfied.

It's light outside by now, and I go to close the blinds so Mello can rest. I feel like I've been through so much in such a short period of time—it doesn't even seem real. I'm so tired; but there's so much left to still do. I could just ignore everything and sleep until Mello wakes up, but I know that he's going to need me to care for him when he's up again. I should get everything else done beforehand.

I grab my pack of cigarettes off the bedside table and light up, inhaling deeply. It calms my nerves a little.

"Hey, Matty…" Mello's voice takes me off guard; I thought he was sleeping. His eyes (or the one not covered by my bandage job,) are open, but heavily lidded. He tilts his head a little to look at me. "You remember when we were kids?" He asks wistfully.

I think it's a fairly vague question, so I consider it for a moment while I take another drag. "Yeah, I remember." I say finally.

"Do you remember how we could just…" He struggles, seeming to search for the right words. I can't help him, because I have no idea what he's talking about. Maybe the pain meds have made him loopy. "We could just share a look," He decides finally, "And know what the other was thinking?"

I exhale the smoke slowly. "Sure—that's what got us into so much trouble." I smile a little.

Mello swallows. I can see the motion takes some effort, and his Adam's apple bobs beneath the bandages. "We were troublemakers, weren't we?" He smiles weakly. Okay, I'm pretty sure the medicine has kicked in.

"We always had fun together." I sit on the edge of the bed. "Come on Mel, sleep for a while; we can talk about this later."

He ignores my request and continues, "We still have fun, don't we?" He asks in a raspy voice.

I reach forward to gently push the damp hair back from his face with my free hand. "Of course we do."

"Do you still know what I'm thinking?" He asks with a thoughtful expression. He looks so pathetic all bandaged up, and I ache for the power to make it all better.

"Probably that we're not having very much fun."

Mello chuckles under his breath. "Yeah, I guess not. I bet I know what you're thinking."

"Okay, shoot." I say in an attempt to sound upbeat. I drag on my cigarette.

He studies me for a moment. "You're thinking about…how crappy I look like this, and wondering what's going to happen next. You're thinking about going and working yourself to death to help me get better."

"That's about the jist of it." No use lying.

He rolls his visible eye up towards the ceiling. "God Matt, you're so predictable." He pats the bed beside him lightly.

I put out my cigarette in the ashtray on my bedside table, and go around to the other side of the bed to climb up beside him. I keep a little distance, not wanting to irritate his wounds or mess up my good bandaging, and lie down. Just to please him.

He looks irritated. "What, now I'm an invalid _and_ I have the plague? Get over here."

I smile a little and scoot over on the bed until I'm lying against his good side. "Better." He approves. "But it would be even better if you lost the boxers and got on—"

"Mello," I warn.

He grumbles, "You're no fun." He's attempting to hide his smile with a scowl, but without much luck.

"I just kill the joy." I say sullenly.

"Indeed."

"Sleep a little, and then I might get naked for you."

"Liar—we have the telepathy thing going on, remember?"

"Ah, it escaped me for a moment. Right then, goodnight."

"It's morning."

"Just go to sleep, damn it!"

"No need to get your knickers in a twist, Matty." He scolds me like a child. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Unless you consequently have to take them off—"

"You're impossible!" I explode.

"Ah, I love you too."

The sudden use of the endearment, even in such a joking manner, throws me off balance for a moment. "Uh." Is the only coherent reply I can manage.

Mello chuckles. "You might want to start practicing—I'm going to be better soon."

My voice lodges in my throat, choking off the words.

I do love Mello. I love Mello more than I loved my parents, and more than I love videogames. I gave him my first kiss, my virginity, and he holds my heart in the palm of his hand. How does saying 'I love you' cover all of that? How does that say that I live for him, and only him, and I'd die for him in an instant? That his happiness makes me happy, and his sadness makes me sad? Love doesn't begin to describe my feelings for Mello. He's my best friend, my brother, my lover, everything. How do I tell him that? The words just won't come. I think he understands—he does understand, right?

"You're doing that over thinking thing." Mello interrupts my thoughts. "Stop it, that's my job."

I can't resist a laugh. Mello smiles a bit in return. "Let's sleep." He says finally. And we do.

I think he understands. No, I know he does. Because I know that I'm everything to him too.

* * *

_AN: Oh my goodness! This chapter is 4,000 words (that's eight—frickin'—pages in word!) and it was a surprisingly fast chapter to write. Sometimes I seriously wonder how I come up with this stuff, and so fast too! It's all just floating around in my head, waiting to become words. Imagine if I actually had more free time. I could take over the world! =D Mello on pain meds was fun to write. The banter just came out—there's no way to stop it._

_Reviews are like my lifeblood! Keep me alive! =D (And go vote on that poll on my profile too, eh? Oh! That reminds me. I thought it would be so much fun to write mafia Mello. Like, expand on his years in the mafia before the Kira showdown. Fun, no? But that means no Matt! Or I could just change it, so Matt would be there. Eh. We'll see. I'm just thinking about it. Have you ever seen such a long set of parenthesises? I think not.)_

_This was written listening to 'Geek in the Pink' by Jason Mraz. Also, I wanted to give you guys a heads up about my plans for the next week. I am officially on spring break (yay!) but I am in desperate need of a vacation. This, unfortunately, means that I will be separated from my desktop until next Friday. (Oh noes!) I think I'm already going through withdrawals on writing this story. I will do my very very best to update again before I leave on Sunday, but no promises. (I do have to work tomorrow...Eh.) So review to motivate me, or else suffer in my absence. =D You guys are amazing._


	23. 22

_Warning: This chapter is rated M for kissing, fondling, implied oral, and sex eyes. Please enjoy.  
(Don't feel comfortable reading this? Send me a PM and I'd be more than happy to send you a clean version of this chapter. =D)_

* * *

Mello wakes me up at an ungodly hour—three in the afternoon. He's shaking my shoulder in a frantic manner that leaves me with the impression that we are in the middle of an earthquake. I'm about to tell him to go stand under the doorframe, I'm so disoriented.

"Matt—Matt, get up."

"I'm up, I'm up…" I mutter, although that isn't entirely true.

"Where's the pain medicine? Where did you put it?"

"Wha—What?" I manage, blinking a few times. He's stopped shaking me, so the world steadies and I'm finally able to look at him. His manic blue gaze is wilder than usual.

"Where did you put the drugs?!" He practically screams at me.

"Drugs?" I repeat. We have drugs?

"The Vicodin!" I realize that his hands are shaking instead of the room. His face is tight with pain and desperation.

"Oh. Oh!" I hadn't set the alarm to wake up and give him another dose. He'd gone more than eight hours without anything—not good. "It's on the kitchen counter." I start to push myself up into a sitting position.

"It's not on the counter! Don't you think I checked the counter?!" I swear if I was wearing a shirt he would have dragged me up by the front of it. I realize, belatedly, that he's not even in bed, but standing to the side of it.

I'm fully awake now. "I might have left it in the bathroom—"

"I checked the bathroom!" He yells, fisting his fingers into his hair like he's about to explode.

"Mello, sit, please, sit." I beg, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him down onto the bed again. His head is bowed. His eyes are pinched closed—he's shaking so badly. "I'll find it." I promise, and scramble out of bed. He just sits there, rocking slightly. Frantically, I run to check all the places we'd been last night.

I finally find it in one of the drawers in the bathroom. I had jammed all the medical supplies in there after I was done bandaging Mello. I fill a glass half way with water, dashing back to the bedroom to rejoin him. He practically jumps me to get the medicine out of my hand and swallows the pills dry.

Slowly, I place the untouched water and the bottle of medication on the bedside table, and then sit down beside him. Mello is still trembling, swaying slightly from side to side, waiting for it to take effect.

"I'm sorry." I say weakly.

"Not your fault." He mutters in return.

"I should have woken up to give you more."

"You were tired too."

"Still…" I sigh a little, but am surprised as he pulls me into an embrace. I rest my head against his chest, facing away from his bandages. Shouldn't I be comforting him? Despite feeling like the weaker link, having him hold me like this is nice. I wrap my arms loosely around his torso. "Is it working yet?" I ask, my voice sounding muffled against his chest.

"No. I need a better drug."

"We don't have—"

He starts to pull away, only to lean down and silence me with his lips. Oh, that sort of drug.

I think he's frustrated by the pain, and somehow decided that I would provide a distraction. I have no objections, and let him overpower me until I'm lying back on the bed. His lips are fierce against mine, desperate for relief—his pain seems to fill him with tension. (He's not really looking for sex, but that's all I can offer in the form of release. He seems willing to take that.)

I part my lips for him—I know by now that if he wants into my mouth, it's best not to refuse him—and his tongue slides inside to tangle with mine. He's always a little rough, but his touches contain a certain sensuality that I can't explain. Mello is by no means a gentle person, and it may sound stupid, but I know he really cares about me. Despite the coarse touches, something just _feels_ genuine.

Mello's fingers fist into my hair, pressing me back firmly into the bed. I'm panting hard through my mouth, inhaling chocolate and heaven, but Mello won't let me come up for fresh air. I'm drowning in his taste. I ache to rip off the bandages covering part of his beautiful face from my view, but I know I can't. Or rather—shouldn't.

Finally, he draws back slightly, breathing heavily. A string of saliva connects our parted lips, and every time he exhales a warm puff of air ghosts over my face. The world is a haze of cutting blue, soft blonde, startling white and smooth skin. I'm seeing what he means about the drug reference—I just reached a whole new level of ecstasy. The pain medicine must have kicked in, but honestly, that is the farthest thing from my mind.

I look up at Mello with hooded eyes, breathing through my mouth. My arms are limp above my head. He always does this to me. I keep thinking that the feeling will go away the longer we're together, but it hasn't yet—a joy so intense, a love so overpowering—I feel like it will consume me. I melt in his arms. I don't think any woman—or man, for that matter—could ever make me feel the way Mello does.

"God, Matty…you're doing that thing." Mello's voice is husky.

"What?" I ask breathlessly.

"The sex eyes—I swear, they should be illegal. You can't carry loaded weapons like that." He leans down to nuzzle my neck, making me tilt back my head. He starts to suck at my pulse, causing it to race.

"I didn't know that…I have sex eyes." I whisper back brokenly, having trouble focusing on anything but how the blood seems to race down to my groin every time he touches me.

"Mm," He chuckles against my neck. "Good thing—you harness a power like that and I'd never let you out of bed. No one gets to see them but me."

I smile a little, my fingers lacing into the back of his hair. Some of the ends are singed from the explosion—I'll have to give him a haircut later. Mello quickly distracts me from my musings when his hand slips down into my boxers. I can't resist a groan.

"No one…but you." I agree on a harsh breath.

"Good." I can tell from his voice that he's smiling, but I can't tell for sure because I'm having trouble seeing straight. "I love your eyes…you shouldn't wear your goggles so much."

I never really feel the need to wear my goggles around Mello. I feel comfortable enough to be exposed. I would say this, but the words lodge in my throat as he continues to fondle me. All I can manage is a weak, "Uhn…"

I hear him chuckle. His kisses head south, and he trails his lips over the scanty muscles of my abdomen. It's difficult to do much of anything but lay there, and let him do whatever he pleases to me. Once I'd expressed, rather embarrassingly, that I felt bad not touching and kissing him in return when we did things like this. He'd actually laughed at me, and said something like, "It's much more pleasurable to see you completely helpless, withering beneath me, than have you fumbling your way around my pants." It is true—the pants are killer. It's much easier when he just takes them off himself; I get all the laces tangled and it becomes a big mess. Luckily, he is wearing some of my boxers now though, so I didn't have to worry about this. (That doesn't mean I have the coherency to actually touch him though.)

Mello's hand slips out of my boxers, much to my disappointment, and instead grips the elastic band with both hands. He's all the way down between my legs now, sitting on his knees. His tongue, (which I swear is the most flexible appendage I have ever seen,) slips out from between his lips to lap at my bellybutton. My stomach twists, hips buck, and a desperate groan tears from my lips. He seems amused by my reaction. "Down boy." He mutters against my skin.

"Screw…you." I attempt to sound menacing, but it's far too difficult when we're in this position.

"Mm, quite the opposite. I think you want _me_ to screw _you_."

I want to object, just to save what little dignity I have left, but he starts to pull down my boxers. His warm, wet mouth starts to explore me intimately, and the last lucid thought I have is a very resounding, '_Yes_.'

* * *

Mello's able to sleep again. The pain medicine, mixed with exhaustion, knocked him out. I'm able to sneak out of bed and clean myself up in the bathroom—which reminds me what a mess it is in there. Since Mello is dozing, I figure now would be a good time to make a trip to the store and pick up a few things.

I leave him a note on the bedside table, promising to be back within a half hour, and hide the pain medicine in my sock drawer. (I don't want him waking up in pain and taking a bunch of pills—I'm planning on being back before he even wakes up though.)

There's small grocery on the corner of my street where I usually go to pick up cigarettes. It's faster to walk than drive, so I throw on some clothes, (which smell a little ripe, but that's what I get for grabbing them off the floor,) pull on my goggles, and hoof it down the street. It's evening by now, but I'm not sure what time exactly. The traffic suggests that it's rush hour. Good thing I decided to walk.

There are only a few people wandering around the store. I grab a basket when passing through the automatic doors, and head down the aisles quickly and efficiently. Ajax and sponges for the bathroom, more bandages and antiseptic for Mello's wounds, chocolate, (I must have a ridiculous amount by now, but he'll eat it, I'm sure,) and six packs of cigarettes at the checkout. It's a surprisingly fast trip—I pay the cashier, take my purchases and head back to the apartment.

I don't quite run back, but I walk pretty fast. I'm so afraid that Mello woke up and freaked out when he realized I wasn't there. Despite the note I'd left, and the short amount of time I'd been gone, he could no doubt get into a lot of trouble by himself. I'd nearly worked myself into a panic by the time I got back, a mere twenty minutes after leaving. I walk into the bedroom to find that he is still sound asleep.

Able to breathe again, I head into the bathroom and start cleaning. I'm quickly reminded of why I'd never bothered to clean it before—it absolutely sucks. The Ajax makes my hands all dry and itchy (is this stuff poisonous?) and I wonder vaguely if I should be wearing gloves. I'm not even going to mention how gross cleaning up vomit is. I know it's not Mello's fault, but that doesn't change the fact that it's disgusting. When I'm done, I realize that the tile on the floor is indeed white. Imagine that.

I clean the shower, sink and toilet, just because I know that if I stop now I'll never pick it up again and finish. Some of the grime is so ground in that it is impossible to get up, so I just skim over the really filthy parts—they're hopeless anyways. When I'm done, I'm surprised at how nice it actually looks in there. I mean, some of it is still really gross, and if you didn't live here, no way you'd actually sit on the toilet for fear of getting some sort of disease. But otherwise, it's decent.

Mello's still sleeping. I guess that's good, but I feel like I'm running out of things to do without him. I head into the living room and boot up my computer. I have a few jobs that I was supposed to finish in this next week, but I know that Mello's going to need me to be taking care of him. I log onto the online forum where I get most of my work—pretty illegal business. It's one of the few places on the Internet where the black market is advertised. It takes a very skilled hacker, or someone with high connections, to get into a site like this. Even so, the source code and the pass keys change weekly.

I know a few of the other hackers on there, and they are more than willing take the high profile jobs off my hands. I don't say why I can't finish them, and no one asks. Once my work is out of the picture, I check on Mello again. He's still totally out; I don't know if I should be worried or not. He must still be really tired. (It probably wasn't the best idea to let him partake in such…vigorous activity so soon.)

I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich, and somehow manage to not burn it. I haven't eaten a hot meal in a while, and it tastes good. After I leave my dirty plate in the sink, I work on bandaging my arm again. We have so many supplies, sparing some shouldn't be much of a problem. The blisters are pretty nasty, but it doesn't hurt so much. I rewrap it and leave it be. Mello didn't have any blisters. I start to ponder this while going to watch the news. Mostly I'm watching for anything public in the Kira case, or anything about the mafia and Mello's mishap with explosives.

After a few hours of nothing, then channel surfing, I figure it's time to wake Mel up and give him some more medicine. I don't want another episode where he goes too long and is in pain. I grab the correct dosage out of my sock drawer hiding spot, a glass of water, and then got to sit on the edge of the bed. Mello is as I had left him, sprawled out on his back, naked apart from the bandages and the blanket I'd pulled over him to save his modesty. (Not like he has much when he is awake.)

"Mello," I say, as gently as I can. "Mel, time to wake up."

He grumbles softly, his heavy eyelids fluttering open lazily. "Mm…Matty?" He mutters. His eyes look hazy and lost, not knowing where to settle.

"I have medicine for you." I say softly, although something just doesn't feel right. My eyebrows furrow, studying Mello through the golden lenses. His skin looks a little flushed, and I reach forward to touch his exposed cheek. It isn't warm like I'd expected—it's hot. "Mel…"

"Let me take it." He mumbles, brushing away my hand and reaching for the medicine. He fumbles to get the pills out of my palm, but manages with some help, and swallows with the water I provide.

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yeah, course." Is his vague reply.

"I'm going to get you some of those cold packs." I think he's starting to object, but I ignore him and go grab the cold compresses out of the bathroom. Ignoring modesty, (like I really haven't seen _that _before,) I pull the blankets off of Mello so he can start to cool off. While I'm arranging the cold packs over his burns, his eyes start to close, and it looks like he's dozing again.

I take the opportunity to check his bandages. I should probably change them, but since he's lying on his back and seems to have no intention of moving, I doubt I could get them off. Some of the burns are oozing yellowish puss onto the bandages—my goggles amplify the color and make it look sickly, and his surrounding skin jaundice.

"Mello," I gently shake his good shoulder. He mumbles something about listening. "I'm going to lift you up a bit." He doesn't respond, and I work to get my hand beneath his back to hoist him up slightly. I'm able to slide behind him onto the bed, still fully clothed. I even have my boots on. I sit back against the headrest, letting Mello's back press against my chest. He shifts himself to get comfortable, only half awake at this point. I adjust the cold packs. His head leans back against my shoulder, and I wrap my arms loosely around his torso. One of my legs is dangling over the side of the bed and the other rests against Mello's. He's totally unconscious by now.

I spend the entire night like this. I keep the cold packs on for twenty minutes, then off again for twenty, like the doctor at the ER had told me to do. I wake him up when it's time for more medicine, and he's hardly coherent. It's hard to believe that just this afternoon we were having sex, and now he's burning up with fever and not responding when I try to talk to him.

By morning, I hadn't slept a wink. I'm exhausted, and Mello is hardly better. I don't know what to do. I'm not a doctor; I don't know what's going on. I can hack into any computer database in the world. I can get the high score at the arcade. Why do these skills not help me when my sole reason for living is in danger? I need to find some new talents. Or, find someone with better talents.

I get out of bed carefully. I'm not really afraid of disturbing Mello, he's out cold, but I don't want to irritate his wounds or injure him further. So I slip out slowly, and head into the other room.

I dial the number into my cell from memory—it's not in my contacts list.

He picks up on the first ring. "Matt." Is his greeting, voice cool. No hello. He's just as apathetic as ever, it seems.

"Near." I respond just as indifferently. Silence settles for a moment. He's waiting for me to say something; Near was never one to fill silences with unnecessary talk. I swallow with some effort. This shouldn't be so hard, but it is. "I need…I need to ask you for a favor."

"You haven't been taking my calls."

"I know."

"We had an agreement Matt. If I call you, it's important. You're supposed to be my contact."

"I wasn't taking calls from anyone."

"You didn't hold up your end of the agreement. I don't owe you anything."

I want to scream at him. I want to scream, and yell, and pull the trigger next to his temple. I hold it inside—Mello's asleep in the next room. "I _need_ a favor." I try to stress the word. I hope he knows that I would only ever ask him for something if it was my last ditch effort.

"This is about Mello, isn't it." Not a question.

I say nothing.

"I was calling you," He says carefully. "To make sure that he's okay."

"I've been a little busy. Courtesy calls weren't on the top of my priority list."

"You could have just picked up the phone Matt."

"No, I couldn't've."

That silence again. It's eerie. I can hear myself breathing, but not Near. I don't think he breathes. "What do you need?" He asks finally, cold as ever.

So it's as easy as that—as easy as yanking out my own molars.

* * *

_AN: So I'm back! (Obviously. =3) First, I want to say that I missed this story terribly while I was away. Going on vacation was a lot of fun, but I can really only relax and enjoy myself when I'm writing. (Dorky, I know. But good for you guys!) I didn't do much of anything while away—although I did hang out in a Barnes and Noble for an entire afternoon and read the Beyond Birthday murder cases. (Saved myself eighteen bucks!) It was awesome. But, of course, it made me want to continue writing. So I was very sad. Now I'm sitting here, wearing black and white striped socks up to my knees, a rosary around my wrist, a cup of tea in hand, finishing this chapter for your enjoyment. I tried so hard to get this done last Saturday, but I realized something about myself. If I make myself feel like I _have _to write something, especially under a time limit, I can't do it. I know, frightening. (I do so much better with positive reinforcement. Like, oh, say, reviews.) __But it's done now, and I hope everyone likes this chapter. =D I didn't plan on having Mello rape Matt at the beginning—it just happened. Some things are unavoidable. Near was difficult to write. Pain in the ass. (In the anime, Near mentioned having 'a way' to get in contact with Mello. Meet Matt, contact. =D)_

_So please tell me what you think (sex eyes!) and I'll get the next chapter up ASAP. I hope Mello's okay. =o Oh noes!_

_This was written listening to 'Faint' by Linkin Park. -points down to review button- And don't forget to vote on the poll on my profile, if you haven't already! Thanks guys!_


	24. 23

When I was sixteen, I got a really bad case of pneumonia. It started out as a simple cold, but eventually got into my chest. The end result was that I was hospitalized for a few days. I cracked three ribs from coughing so hard, and they had to drain the fluid out of my lungs with a needle the length of my forearm. (If I hadn't waited so long to go in and get checked, it might not have been so bad. They also cited smoking as a cause—idiots.)

This experience left me with a strong dislike for doctors. Going to the ER to get my arm treated wasn't the same thing. It was very cut and dry—get checked, get medicine, make Mello feel better. This is different.

First, Near is involved. Whenever that slimy albino freak has a hand in things it makes me nervous. Second, really just an extension of the first, Near picked the doctor. Someone off the record, apparently, hired exclusively by Near. Poor bastard; I have to feel a little sorry for him. Not that Near has ever treated me poorly, mind you. My hatred is something that's built up from long years of watching him beat Mello—feeding into his obsession with being number one and whittling away his sanity. You have no idea how difficult it was for me to watch the one I love suffer at the hands of someone who _doesn't even care_. Working for Near was like ripping out little pieces of my heart and selling them to the devil for candy that's bitter and doesn't last. I can't get those pieces back, but I can sure as hell protect the rest of them. The final problem is that the doctor is coming to my apartment. No one comes to my apartment. (Apart from Mello, that is.) It's my safe haven. Now some weirdo that _Near_ picked out is going to come over? Not really a happy place.

I'm trying to picture best and worst case scenarios. Best would probably be a gorgeous young woman doctor. (Wait, wait, wait. She might try to hit on Mello—and he's totally unconscious and can't fend off horny women! So no lady doctors.) Worst case would probably be some sick old pedophile—which is kind of the same problem as the woman, I guess. I really don't have time to worry about things like this. I go back into the bedroom and put a pair of my boxers onto Mello, just in case. He's not even responsive now—I touch his groin (because I have full entitlement to that area,) and he doesn't even flinch. Oh God! What if the doctor, lady or not, rapes him? He doesn't know any better, he's not even awake! Wait, what am I thinking? I'm right here. No one's going to rape Mello with me around. Okay, deep breath.

I think I've completely lost it. Worry, fear, the lines are hazy. I go to grab a cigarette with shaking hands, and accidently try to light the filter. Mello needs to wake up—he needs to wake up, right now! I toss the ruined cigarette to the ground, and climb up onto the bed on my knees. "Mello, stop it!" I cry, grasping him by the shoulders. I'm not even thinking about his injury now. I shake him. "Mello, wake up! Stop it, stop faking it! You're fine, I'm fine! Let's be fine…please, let's be fine together." Everything looks blurry through the lenses of my goggles. "Please, let me wake up." I whisper, and nothing happens. He's not waking up—I'm not waking up. I'm stuck in a nightmare and him in a dream. I hope his unconsciousness takes him to a beautiful place. I hope he can rest there, be happy there, while I'm stuck dealing with reality.

The doctor is going to be here soon.

With uneven breaths, I lean down to press a kiss to my beloved's forehead. He looks so peaceful, and if his skin wasn't so hot under my lips I might have thought he was okay. My heart is crumbling. There's no way any of this is going to be okay. I stumble off the bed. The world is swimming, pale and yellow—seasick. I stagger to my dresser and yank open the bottom drawer. I paw through the clothes with trembling hands. Some of Mello's, some of mine, all clothes, all fabric, rough, soft, cold, hot, up, down, Mello, me, God—no, no God. I find it under some of Mello's leathers. It's mine. Mello's borrowed it a few times, but it's mine.

Metal's so cold. So cold compared to Mello's skin, my skin, my shaking hands. Pressing into my palm. It fits so well, so easy. I load a cartridge into the pistol. The doctor is going to be here soon. That doctor is going to save Mello's life—or I'm going to end his. Then mine. Mello's going to be okay, or the entire world is going to know it. I will bathe this city in blood. Mello _will_ be okay. His beautiful face, those haunting blue eyes—they will look at me again. They will look at me with love, because I'm going to make sure that he's saved. I never told him how much I love him. I _will_ tell him. In heaven, hell, or here on earth, I will tell him. Everything, everything for him. Always for him.

The doctor is going to be here soon.

I take my loaded gun, safety on, and place it in the loop in my pants. It's fully visible—just the way I want it.

The doctor is going to be here soon.

I sit and wait. It doesn't take more than an hour—Near promised that the doctor would be prompt. I jerk open the door before the visitor is even done knocking. I must look a little like a lunatic. That's okay. I feel like a lunatic.

It's not a young woman, or an old man. Instead, the doctor is a middle-aged gentleman. He's not wearing a white lab coat, or a name tag announcing his M.D. status. No, he's rather plain. His blue plaid button up shirt is tucked into his khaki pants, which rest at just the right height above his polished Dockers. He holds a duffle bag in one hand. His surprised expression is priceless. I wonder for a moment what Near told him. I wonder what his expectations were—treating a genius? No doubt. Dealing with a manic, gun wielding genius? Doubtful.

I see his gaze flicker to my pistol, then back up to my face. He forces a smile—his teeth are fake white. White like Mello's bandages. "Hello, I'm Dr. Kinsley." Near must be paying this guy a fortune.

I don't say anything. He extends a hand, like he wants to shake. What, is he an idiot? I look at it with disgust. Finally he clears his throat, and wipes his hand on his pants like it had been dirty. I wonder if he has a pretty wife at home who presses his pants, or if he sends them to the cleaners. They have that starched crease down the front.

"You're here to make Mello better." I say, slowly, as if he might not understand otherwise.

"Yes, of course, I'll do whatever I can." He responds with confidence. That smile again.

I resist the urge to pistol-whip him. "No." I say through gritted teeth. "You won't do everything you can—you'll do more. A thousand times more."

He pales a little at my dangerous tone. Now is not the time to screw with me; I don't want his fake crap. I need Mello back. "Yes," He says carefully. "Right then." He clears his throat. "Let's take a look at him."

I take him into the bedroom. I don't offer to carry his bag. I am having a 'What would Mello do?' moment. Scare the dude shitless, so he's obligated to do everything humanly possible, or else face certain death. It doesn't get any more motivating than that.

I watch as he opens his bag then starts to check the unconscious Mello on the bed. He's taking all of his vitals, and then cutting off the bandages to check his burns. I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the wall where I can view everything.

Finally Dr. Kinsley straightens to look at me. "It looks like he has the start of an infection. I don't know if it's gone into his bloodstream yet, but if you look at the redness here and the of visible veins streaking down his arm, that's usually a sign of—"

"Can you fix it?" I interrupt him.

Startled, he hesitantly nods. "I expected something of this sort when Near explained the situation to me, so I came prepared."

He reaches into his bag, pulling out a syringe filled with a clear liquid—it looks like pee through the tint of my goggles. He attaches a needle. "Do you have any more of those?" I ask plainly.

He glances up at me from his work, cautious. "Yes, I have several. I have to be the one to administer them though; I can't let you keep prescription medicine like this. I'm sure that you'd use it correctly," He adds quickly, seeing as I have a heavy firearm on my hip, "But it's really something that needs to be done by a doctor—"

While he's giving his speech I push off the wall, saunter over to the side of the bed and snatch the injection from his hand. Shocked, he stops talking. I start to roll up my sleeve.

"Y-You can't take that!" He's wide-eyed with surprise. "It's not healthy to take antibiotics if you don't need them. It can be harmful to your immune system, and kill off the bacteria that are helpful to your body!"

I can't take it anymore—I snap. Still holding the syringe in one hand, I whip out my gun with the other and level it with his head. The safety clicks off. Everything's so still. I can only hear Mello breathing on the bed just beside us. Dear, sweet Mello. I wish it was me on that bed.

The doctor looks terrified, but is frozen to the spot. "Shut the hell up." I hiss. "You're going to wake him up if you keep yelling like that." Something in the back of my mind says that this doesn't make sense, but I don't know why. I ignore it. Dr. Kinsley is silent as I find the vein in my arm and slide the needle in. I press down the plunger, probably a little too fast, because I feel the cool medicine rush into my body. (Injecting myself came easily—I got practice from a life without Mello that I'd rather not relive. That's a story for another day.)

"Fix another." I say, my voice a little rough. I gesture to his bag using my pistol. "Wait ten minutes—then you can give it to him. Bandage him, why don't you."

The doctor doesn't say anything, and starts to do as I'd told him. I drop the used needle carelessly to the floor before walking back to my place at the wall; I cross my arms again and watch him do his work. His hands are shaking—I don't know if I should be irritated or satisfied. I choose indifference, and return my gun to its place on my pants.

I wait for a trip that never comes. Apparently taking antibiotics isn't like taking drugs—that's good. I don't feel dizzy, pass out, nothing. Everything is comfortably normal. I am the jester who takes a sip of wine before the King. The world could do without me, but not without Mello. No, the world would fall apart without Mello. Satisfied that the wine is free of poison, the jester agrees to let the King take his drink.

Dr. Kinsley continues to tend to Mello for a good forty-five minutes. Mello appears so peaceful, even asleep, while he's being bandaged and medicated. "I'm going to give him an IV of fluids." The doctor says finally. "To keep him hydrated. He seems to have lost a fair amount of blood, and infection isn't helping, so we may have to infuse him if we don't see an improvement in the next few days."

I just nod once, silent.

He goes on, "You should keep him bandaged up for about a day, then if he's awake and comfortable, try to take them off and let the wounds air out. There's some third degree burns along his side, and he won't ever regain feeling in those areas. It's too late to graft. The rest should heal, but most likely with bad scarring. Cosmetic surgery is always an option, but that would have to be a good ways into the future, and there's no guarantee that he will ever be the same.

"Expect him to sleep a lot. I see that you've been giving him Vicodin, but I'm going to give you some stronger narcotics that he can take when in pain. I'll also trust you can give him these antibiotics orally; the directions and dose are on the side of the prescription. Everything should clear up within the next few days. He should start eating as soon as he's awake. If he's nauseated, try starting out with a clear liquid diet. It's probably more psychological than physical. This IV should help, but he needs to eat and drink to regain his strength." He pauses, the IV needle poised at the crook of Mello's arm. "You want to try this too?" He asks, almost daring to smile.

I scowl—the amusement on his face dies immediately. "No. It's in a sterile bag. It would be too much work for you to get something in there." Fluids like that are manufactured in mass numbers in factories; I can see the logo on the edge of the bag. They would have had to break the seal to fix it with something, so it is highly unlikely.

Dr. Kinsley shrugs, and sets up the IV, hanging the bag on the edge of my headboard. "I should probably come back in a few days to check and make sure—"

"I'll call you," I interrupt. "If anything comes up. I think I can take it from here." I give him a cold stare through my goggles.

I watch as his gaze drops to my gun again, seeming to consider whether or not it would be a good idea to argue with me. Luckily, he seems smart enough to decide against it. So all those years of schooling paid off; glad to see he has _some_ sense of self-preservation.

_'You're a piece of work, Matt. I think your sense of self-preservation stands at about zero.'_

_'You're not going to hurt me.'_

Mello's still unconscious when Dr. Kinsley leaves, although he shifted a little on the bed, and mumbled something I couldn't hear. I was anxious when the doctor was here, and I'm glad when the apartment is finally empty of strangers. I wonder what he is going to go report to Near. Perhaps that a psychotic, gun-wielding teen is watching over Mello. Said gun feels heavy, weighing down my left side. I grab a cigarette, able to light the correct end this time. I drag deeply. I don't take off my firearm. Its presence is reassuring there against my body.

Especially paranoid today, I go sweep the apartment for bugs. Even though I'd been with the doctor the entire time he was here, I want to make sure that the place is clean. He'd been hired by Near, after all. I'm thorough, checking every nook and cranny. Once I start I can't stop—I have to check everywhere. What if Near had been in my apartment before? What if he'd been watching us—listening to us—all this time? Every conversation, every intimate moment; did none of that belong to just to the two of us? Terrified, I painstakingly check every inch of the place for surveillance. I don't find anything.

I'm on my hands and knees checking the electrical outlets, smoking my fifteenth cigarette in the last two hours, when a voice behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

"Matty…" I turn slightly so I can look over my shoulder. Mello is leaning against the doorframe to the bedroom. He's so pale; he looks drained. (I think if he didn't have wall there to hold him up, he probably wouldn't be on his feet.) His bandages look so much better since Dr. Kinsley did them. "What are you doing?" He sounds tired.

"You're awake." My voice sounds surprised. I start to scramble to my feet, stamping my cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table nearby. "Uh…checking for bugs."

He ignores my former statement, seeing as it's fairly obvious. "You think someone bugged the apartment?" He asks skeptically.

"Maybe…"

"Do these bugs bite?"

"What? Of course not—"

"Matt, you're wearing a gun."

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that." He looks irritated.

I work to change the subject, and state the first thing that strikes me. "Where's your IV?"

"Why are you wearing a gun?"

"Why are you out of bed?"

"Do you _want_ me to hit you?"

I'm silent for a moment, meeting his gaze through the lenses of my goggles. Slowly, I make my way across the room to stand in front of him. "You're okay." I say softly.

He scoffs. "Of course." Despite his bravado, his gaze is soft. "How long was I out for?"

"Last night, and this morning."

"You freaked out, didn't you." He doesn't even make it a question—am I so predictable?

"No." I don't even know why I'm denying it. I close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around his torso. My head fits nicely against the crook of his neck. I exhale, letting my eyes close for a moment. I feel his arms wrap around me in return, and now I'm the one holding him up. I'm so selfish—I should make him go lie down again, but I can't bring myself to do it. He's okay. He's here, he's real, and okay, in my arms.

"Matt," After a stretch of silence, his husky voice brings me back to reality. "Can you move just a little—"

"Oh, shit." I quickly move back—I'd been pressing on his bandaged side with my arm. "Mel, I'm so sorry…"

"Forget about it." He brushes it off, but now that I'm looking at his face I can see that it's ashen, and tight with pain.

"Do you want some pain medicine?"

"Sure." I can hear the relief in his voice.

I help Mello to the couch, and then grab the Vicodin out of the bedroom. While Dr. Kinsley had been helpful, I'm not about to feed Mello pills if I don't know what they are or if they're genuinely clean medicine. There's that paranoia again. I itch my arm—the scar that my trust left. I followed Near like a puppy. I thought I knew, I thought…I thought that I had everything figured out. But I can't trust anyone but Mello. Mello has never deceived me. He left me, once, but he was honest. He loves me. I believe him.

I give him the medicine, and he takes it thankfully, drinking a full glass of water. Once finished, he leans his head against my shoulder, his eyes only half open. "So why are you packing heat Matt?" He asks, sounding almost nonchalant.

I swallow with some effort. "Just for protection."

"Uh-huh." His voice is lethargic. "And how'd I get that IV?"

"Connections."

"Right…" Silence settles for a moment. I'm holding my breath. "Did you say hi to Near for me? Little bastard must be lonely…nobody wants to be his friend. Wonder why." He scoffs.

It takes me a moment to recover from the shock. "You…you aren't mad?"

He shrugs a little. "I would have done the same thing."

"No you wouldn't've."

He shrugs again. "Depends. If I felt like there was no other way, I'd work with that prick."

I'm touched by his sincerity, and left speechless. Mello smiles a bit, and reaches up to pull the goggles down off my eyes. I help him, and allow them to rest around my neck. The world doesn't look so bad; Mello is golden, even without the filter. All the chaos in my mind seems to calm. I stare down at him, and he stares back. Silence, more comfortable than words.

Finally, I have to say it. Not saying it would be a crime, and an insult. All this time—how could I have gone all this time and not told him? He deserves it. "I…" My throat feels thick, my heart beating a little too fast. "I love you, Mel."

His lips turn upwards slightly at the corners. "I know." He responds, rather smugly. "But thanks for saying so. Do you have any chocolate?"

Stunned by his lack of reaction, I hesitantly start to nod.

"Good. Syrup?"

"Uh, I think so."

"Perfect. Go get in the bath, cover yourself with it, and I'll show you how much I love you."

I can't resist a laugh. All the tension I'd been holding while he was unconscious has drained away. "You're being ridiculous."

"Come on, it'll be romantic. Or some equally dreamy, mushy sort of word—don't you like that kind of thing?"

I smile. "I love you Mel." I say, confidently this time.

He sighs. "You're no fun."

* * *

_AN: The beginning of this chapter, with Matt's psychotic breakdown, was pretty fun to write. (Please keep in mind that it was meant to be fragmented, sometimes contradictive, confused, and disjointed.) Without Mello, Matt's pretty lost. (That, and I really wanted to see him wave a gun around. xD) I know that the change of mood was quick and drastic, but it's supposed to be that way. While Mello isn't the most...sane person, he helps Matt keep his head, and vice versa. When they're together, Matt's a different person than when they're apart. (Notice that sly drug reference with the antibiotics? Yeah, I went there. Make your own conclusions. ^^)_

_I want to thank everyone who's been dilligently reviewing. It's so encouraging, and so much fun to read. =) I know it sounds selfish, but I didn't want to post this chapter because I hadn't gotten very many reviews on the last installment. I felt like I owed it to those who have been reviewing, however, so I uploaded this. Please, take a moment and tell me what you think? It would mean the world to me. =D_

_This was written listening to 'Unwell' by Matchbox Twenty. Fitting in so many ways. -points to review button- Mello's offering a chocolate bath (with company) to any reviewer! How can you turn down an offer like that?_


	25. 24

I don't know how I forgot; I'm usually good at these things. Mello is still asleep in bed when I get up, but I'm not so worried about him now. He's been taking the antibiotics that Dr. Kinsley brought, and I've been keeping a schedule for his pain medicine. I go to make some scrambled eggs, seeing as I don't know how to make any other kind and I need to eat _something_ for breakfast. I turn on the TV, just to keep up on the news.

Nothing new is going on in the world—but the tedium is not what makes me remember. At the corner of the screen, where the little news logo is spinning, it shows the date and time. 7:49 a.m., December 13th. December the thirteenth. Today is Mello's birthday.

Oh, shit.

We've never been very big on holidays, but just saying 'happy birthday' sounds lame. I had been planning on getting him something, but I'm a procrastinator, and hadn't found the time yet. Also, he blew up his face, which was pretty distracting. So I have a pretty good excuse, but I still feel stupid for not thinking ahead. Anything now would just seem like an afterthought gift. We have bucket loads of chocolate, so getting him more wouldn't really mean anything.

I can just picture it. 'Hey Mel, I got you this candy bar.'

'Oh? Can you add it to that pile over there?'

How memorable. I'm a terrible friend. Everything I can think of seems tacky, and he probably wouldn't even use any of it. Flowers are cliché, kind of stupid, and would probably end up dying because we'd forget to change the water. I could get him a movie, seeing as our DVD collection is pretty lacking, but he'd probably just watch it once, if he even finds the time to watch it at all. I could get him a book, although I have no idea what he's already read, or what he's even into at the moment.

This is hopeless! He has everything he could ever need. Anything he wants, he goes and gets himself, or demands that I go get it for him. It's not like we watch our money—I can get us anything we need with a few clicks of a mouse—so he never has a reason to wait for anything. (Also, he likes instant gratification.)

While I was thinking of all my options, I completely forgot about my eggs—which are now burning onto the pan, and starting to smoke. I curse aloud, take the pan off the stove and drop it into the sink. I turn on the water, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but it hits the scalding hot pan and now it's steaming _and_ smoking. The smoke detector above my head starts beeping, announcing, rather obnoxiously, that there's smoke. Well, thanks for stating the obvious. I thought, (okay, wished,) that we'd broken that thing ages ago.

I turn off the water, attempting to wave away the smoke with my hands. It's clearing, but that stupid smoke detector isn't turning off! I'm wondering if I stand on the counter, if I could reach it and take the batteries out—it's kind of in the middle of the kitchen, so I might need a ladder. I'm starting to climb up on the counter when I hear Mello's voice from the bedroom, yelling, "Did you set yourself on fire again?"

"No!" I call back. "Just a minor malfunction! Go back to sleep!" I'm on my knees on the counter now, grasping at the cabinets to help pull myself up and stand. I'm balanced between the sink and the stove. I reach for the fire detector, but my arm is about six inches too short. I curse again. It's still beeping, but the smoke has pretty much gone away. We get it, okay? I'm a screw up, I know.

I'm not surprised that Mello finally gets up; the noise is unbearable. He observes me from the doorway to the bedroom. He seems to be considering whether or not he actually wants to help me, or just continue to watch for his own amusement. He raises a blonde eyebrow. "You look like an idiot—your arm's not going to get any longer, you know."

I'm holding onto the edge of the cabinet, leaning out over to the open floor, groping for the smoke detector. So close. I send him a glare, and have to do a double take. He's wearing one of my long-sleeved, striped shirts. And nothing else. I nearly fall off the counter. It's loose, which is probably why he picked it up, so it won't irritate his unwrapped wounds. The length is the best (or worst) part. The hem falls just above his midthigh, hiding the best part, barely.

It takes me a moment to realize that the smoke detector has stopped beeping. Mello's laughing at me, probably because of the stunned expression on my face. My cheeks flush, and I work to climb off the counter without falling and hurting myself.

Mello rolls his eyes. "I'm taking a shower. Don't kill yourself with stupidity while I'm away." He turns—I can't help but tilt my head to the side to improve my view—and saunters back into the bedroom. (Bastard—I bet he knows that he looks amazing.)

The tightness in my pants is begging me to follow him, but I keep myself in place. Birthday. Focus. I need to figure out a gift. I start to scrape the ruined eggs out of the pan with a spatula, turning the garbage disposal on and washing them away. So pretty much I need to find something that he can use and will like. Something that says, 'Congratulations on making it through another year without dying!' Great. I know that I should just forget it and make a chocolate cake or something, but I feel like I _need_ to give him something. I want it to be thoughtful and show him how much he means to me.

I've already given him everything. He lives in my apartment, sleeps in my bed, uses my shower. Everything that's mine is already his. _I'm_ already his. Not to sound cocky, but what else could he ever want? Nothing, obviously. I listen to the sound of the water turning on in the bathroom.

Hesitantly, I head into the bathroom as well. "Hey Mel, I've got to go out for a little while." I call over the sound of the shower.

He pulls back the curtain, completely disregarding modesty. "Out?" He repeats, hands returning to his hair, water and suds sliding down his body in rivulets. I ache to follow those trails with my fingertips, my lips…

I swallow with some effort, and then nod. "Yeah."

He frowns a little, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind me. "Ugh, I'm hideous." He turns back to the showerhead, tilting his head up. "Are you going to the store?" He doesn't even wait for a response. "Get me some aviator glasses—you know, those huge ones with the dark lenses."

"Mel, you're not…" I say softly.

He rolls his eyes, shaking his hair so little drips of water fall off the ends. I still need to cut it—maybe later, if I remember. "Easy for you to say." He scoffs. "Your body isn't mutilated."

"Come on Mello, it could be a lot worse."

"No, it couldn't." He deadpans.

"You're being overly dramatic. You could be dead."

I realize a moment too late that I shouldn't have even gone there. He's silent, I'm holding my breath—the only sound comes from the pounding water. But after only a moment he reaches forward, and turns off the faucet. His hair is still lathered with shampoo, but he steps over the lip of the tub. He's dripping all over the floor.

He faces me, naked and wet, staring me down. I can't read his expression. He reaches forward, taking my hand in his. For a horrific moment, I think he's going to break my fingers. But he's oddly gentle, moving to rest my hand against his ruined cheek. I don't try to pull away, but I don't encourage the action, because I know it must hurt him despite his blank expression. "I'm sorry that you have to be the one to look at me every day." He says finally.

Shocked, it takes me a moment to respond, but finally I say, "Mel, stop this…You're the most beautiful person I know."

"You're just as sheltered as ever, I see." He muses.

My fingers curl a little, pressing the pads fingertips against his rough skin. "No." I shake my head slightly. "Just honest. I love you Mel, none of that matters."

He sighs wistfully. "You don't understand…I guess I couldn't really expect you to. My body's not my own anymore. This isn't me. This isn't what I wanted."

"No one would want this."

"I guess not." He lets go of my hand, but I let my fingers remain, ghosting over his mutilated face. "Matt…just get the glasses, okay?" His eyes are downcast.

I nod a little, and he pulls away from my touch to climb back into the shower. He doesn't draw the curtain yet, turning the water on again. He rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. "Oh, and Matt?" He draws my attention back, just as I'd been getting ready to turn and leave. "Thanks."

I smile a little, nod silently, and leave him alone.

I'd been planning on going out and wandering around downtown until I found a good present. Now I have more of a purpose. I grab my jacket and keys as I head out the door, lighting a cigarette while I walk down the stairs. The Camaro purrs when I start her up, raw power at my fingertips. Gloved fingers flex over the wheel—the only thing that could possibly make this better would be Mello in the seat beside me. But I have to do this alone—I have to find him something worthy.

I buy some sunglasses at a boutique downtown. I'm pretty bad at stuff like this, so the girl that works there helped me pick out a pair. (Her nametag says Krystal—yeah, with a K and everything.) I described to her what Mello had asked me to buy, and we found the best looking pair.

That out of the way, I'm still left with the problem of a gift. Since she seems knowledgeable, and her presence is tolerable, (she's not chewing gum,) I decide to ask for her opinion. I'm paying at the counter, and she's placing the glasses into a small black bag. "So, I was wondering…" I start out hesitantly, putting my credit card away. "You're good at picking out gifts, right?"

Krystal smiles, and shrugs her shoulders a little. "I know the store, if that's what you mean. Was there something else you're looking for?"

"Well, that's the problem. I don't really know what I'm looking for."

She has a knowing look. "Girl trouble?"

"Boy trouble." I correct sheepishly. "It's his birthday."

She laughs. "How long have you two been together?"

"Since forever."

Her smile grows. "Well, what's he into?"

I consider this for a moment. What does Mello like? Sex, leather, beating Near…I don't think any of these things are going to help me find a present. "Uh, no specific taste…" Unless he's tasting me. "He likes black; leather, especially. He's Catholic. He's into me." I add, smiling a little.

She giggles. "Well, have you ever thought of proposing to him?"

I shake my head a little. "I don't know if he's really into that sort of thing. I mean, it's not even legal."

"True." She taps her French manicured nails against the counter. "I don't know what to tell you." She says finally. "He likes leather? I mean, you could get him a jacket, or gloves. Catholic, hm. Bible? Rosary?"

I sigh. "He has all those things."

"Sounds like a toughie. Anything else you can give me to work with?"

I struggle to find the words the describe Mello. "He likes chocolate, and sex, together or separate. He's my best friend and my better half. He's a little crazy sometimes, kind of OCD, really smart. Too smart for his own good; he thinks too much sometimes."

Krystal seems amused, smiling a bit. "You're really into him, aren't you?"

I smile sheepishly. "Yeah. He's everything."

Her smile is gentle. "Well, prove how much you love him. Let him know that you care."

I nod a little, although I still have no idea how to do that. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks for all your help." I take the bag containing Mello's new sunglasses and leave the store. There's a diner just down the street, and I go to get some pancakes. I hadn't eaten anything today, since my attempt at cooking eggs had failed horribly, and I'm starving. Food will help me think.

Although it looks like a dive from the outside, it's an oddly nice place on the inside. Sports relics clutter the walls, red and white vinyl booths line the walls. Couples sit in the corners, girls chatter back and forth over breakfast, and gentlemen sit alone to read the paper. I take a seat at the counter, grabbing a menu out from between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers. I flip through the sticky, plastic protected pages.

"Do you know what you want honey?" The waitress asks from the other side of the counter, a woman who might have been pretty if she wiped off some of her dark makeup. She taps the pad of paper in her hand with the pen in her other.

"Coffee would be great. And some pancakes." I smile.

"You want the pancake breakfast?" She continues, scribbling something onto the paper.

"Sure."

"Bacon or sausage?"

"Bacon—really crispy. Just burn it, actually. That would be perfect."

She chuckles. "How do you want your eggs?"

I'm reminded of my mishap this morning, and can't resist scrunching up my nose. "Pass on the eggs."

"Sure thing sweetie. I'll be right back with your coffee." She saunters off to put in my order.

I stare off into space, trying to think about Mello's birthday present; I want to prove how much I care about him, like Krystal suggested. A small crash brings me back to reality, and I swivel my seat to look and see what all the ruckus is about.

One of the other waitresses just dropped an entire tray of food. She looks flustered by her mistake, bending over to start picking up the larger pieces of broken porcelain. The back of her uniform shirt rides up a little revealing the hint of a tattoo—the name 'Michael' flanked by two red hearts. There might be a bird or something there too, but she straightened too quickly, and I couldn't tell.

My waitress joins her in cleaning up the mess. The poor woman who dropped the tray looks embarrassed for drawing so much attention; she's apologizing profusely to the couple she'd been bringing the food to. Michael…like Mihael. Like Mello.

And then, I realize exactly what I'm going to get Mello for his birthday.

* * *

Seven hours. Seven—freakin'—hours. When I finally get back, it's late in the afternoon. I expected that Mello would be worried about me, but when I open the door he's sitting at my desktop, typing away. He's in one of my shirts again, but he's wearing boxers this time. He looks completely absorbed, and doesn't even spare me a glance upon entering.

"Hey…" I say hesitantly.

"You get my sunglasses?"

"Yeah." I toss him the bag, and he catches it by the handle without even looking away from the screen. He pulls out the glasses, glancing at them once. He seems to approve, because he slides them on, despite being indoors and it being pretty poorly lit anyways.

I wait for a response, but get none. He keeps typing. I slink into the kitchen, grabbing a large bowl out of the cupboard. I start to make up the chocolate cake from the mix I bought at the store. (The only problem is that I don't have any measuring cups, so I just guess on how much water is a cup, and how much vegetable oil makes up a few tablespoons.) I'm stirring the chocolate paste when I hear Mello enter the kitchen behind me.

He's silent for a moment, just watching. His expression is probably either confused or amused—I don't turn to look. "What are you doing?" He asks finally, using his, 'oh God, not again' tone.

"Making a cake." Isn't it obvious? I have a pan out and everything.

"Why didn't you just buy a cake?"

"Because this is more thoughtful."

"Right…you're going to poison me, aren't you?"

"Probably." I dump some more water in there, because it's kind of thick.

Silence stretches for a moment. "Why are you making a cake?" He asks finally.

I actually have to turn and make sure he's serious. He is…he has no idea why I'm making a cake. "For your birthday." I say slowly.

"My…" He pauses, blonde eyebrows furrowing. "Oh, is that today?"

"Yeah."

He shrugs. "Oh. Cool, I guess." He joins me at the counter, dipping a finger into the cake batter and licking it clean.

"Is it okay?" I ask hesitantly.

"Pretty good, actually." He smiles a bit. "You didn't get me anything, right? I know we do the Christmas present thing, but birthdays aren't so important. You don't have to get me a gift."

"Kind of late for that." I respond sheepishly.

This catches his interest. "What'd you get me?" He's such a child—even though he says he doesn't want a present, he's excited. I can see it in his eyes.

"Well, this cake for starters."

"Uh-huh, I got that much."

"And something else."

"I got that much too." He looks a little irritated at my evasiveness.

I'm having second thoughts on my choice of gift, but it's too late now. "You'll have to wait, maybe until tomorrow."

"What?!"

"It's a surprise!"

"But I want it now!" So much for not wanting a gift; he seems to have completely abandoned that idea.

I turn back to the bowl of cake mix. "Be patient." I chide.

He's glaring at me through his sunglasses. I don't give him the satisfaction of responding, and start to pour the batter into the pan. Frustrated, he finally turns away and starts rooting around the bags I'd brought back from the store. "This is all groceries!" He cries, grabbing a bar of chocolate and taking a vicious bite. "Don't tell me you got me groceries for my _birthday_."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Maybe I did—I thought you didn't want a present."

"I didn't! But since you got me one, I'm not going to _refuse_ it. That would be rude."

I can't resist a chuckle. Picking up the pan, I place it into the oven and set the timer. "Being a genius obviously doesn't mean that you're mature."

His eye twitches behind the dark lenses. I expected him to snap at me, but instead he grabs me from behind, taking me off guard, and putting me into a headlock. "Tell me what it is!" He demands, dragging me backwards so my back is bending at an odd angle.

I choke, his elbow digging into my shoulder, front pressing to my back. "Ow, ow! Uncle, God, uncle! Get the hell off of me!"

He releases me, seeming satisfied, and I rub uncomfortably at my left shoulder.

He frowns a bit. "What the hell Matt? Since when are you such a wimp?"

"I'm not a wimp." I snap, rolling my neck.

His eyes narrow behind the glasses. Uncomfortable under his gaze, I drop my hand from my shoulder. "Take your shirt off." He demands. Damn, he is a genius.

"What?! Fuck no!"

"Take the damn shirt off, or I'll cut it off you with a kitchen knife!"

I'm backing away from him, but my butt hits the counter—I turn and run. He's right behind me. I dodge to the other side of the couch. While I'm usually faster than him, I'm also wearing heavy boots while he is barefoot. "Let me see it!" He demands.

"There's nothing to see!"

He scoffs. "Like hell."

We're on opposite sides of the couch, trying to fake the other out—finally I dart to the side, heading for the door. He's faster though, and grabs me before I get there. He twists my arm behind my back, and slams my front against door—hard. I groan, and he keeps me pinned.

While he's still holding my wrist, his other hand is fumbling for the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to my mid-back. I'm holding my breath. "Holy _fuck_." He says, startled. "It's huge Matt! Where does it even end?"

"…"

"Matt." He growls.

"My forearm."

"_Holy fuck_." He says again. "What's it even of? Can I take the bandages off?"

"It's mostly just a design—no, I have to leave them on until tomorrow. I can't…breathe. Get off of me!"

He releases me, and I take a deep breath before turning to face him. He's wide-eyed. "Let me see all of it." He sounds excited.

I sigh, shoulders slouching, but reluctantly pull my shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor in a crumpled heap. The tattoo is still fresh, and some of it bleeding. The artist had bandaged it up, mostly with clear tape and some cotton swabs. It probably looks pretty gross right about now. The black ink starts at my forearm, swirling up to my shoulder, then down the left half of my back and front, twisting together at my side. Mello pulls me out from against the door so he can step behind me, and then come back to my front again. I can tell that he's trying to pick out the pattern through the mess of bloody bandages and tape. Some of it is visible, but most not.

"Is this fire?" He asks, prodding the skin beneath my nipple with a finger, the tape crinkling under his touch.

"Kind of, yeah."

He just stares. "God, it's fucking _huge_."

"I think we've established that, thanks."

"You got a tattoo for my birthday? Isn't that kind of selfish?" He seems amused. Even though he can't see all of it, I think he likes it.

"Well," I take a deep breath. "This morning, when you said that your body isn't your own anymore…well, mine never belonged to me."

"What do you mean?"

"It belongs to you." I smile weakly. "I wasn't about to go burn the left half of my body, but I thought that this way…we'd sort of match. All of it means something. It took a whole hour this morning to map it out. I was going to show you tomorrow, when it isn't so gross. I thought…you know, in a tacky, sentimental sort of way, that it would be like giving myself to you. Like a present."

He just stares at me for a long moment. Finally, his lips turn up at the corners. "You're a piece of work Matt." He wraps his arms around my midriff, pressing his lips to mine for a short moment. "I love you." He says upon retracting. "Next time you get a tattoo, can I come and watch?" He grins mischievously.

"You want to watch me cry and bleed while some stranger is poking me with needles?" I ask incredulously.

"You cried?"

Ah, crap. "No!"

He's laughing at me. "Ah, you totally did! Oh my God, Matt! You poor boy." He's obviously teasing me, but my cheeks flush despite myself.

"Come on, there's some really sensitive spots—like around the armpit. You totally would have cried too!"

"Uh-huh. Whatever makes you feel better. Now go finish my cake."

I grumble, stepping away from him and leaning over to grab my shirt. I catch him admiring my ass while I'm bent over, which makes me feel a little better. "Pervert." I mutter, before I turn to head back into the kitchen.

He completely ignores my mumbled jab. "You should put chocolate shavings on it." He adds, calling after me. "And chocolate sauce!"

"I'm not putting fuckin' chocolate sauce on a cake!"

"It's my birthday!"

I yank open the fridge door and pull out the icing and chocolate sauce, grumbling to myself the whole time. Mello just watches me smugly. I'm so whipped.

* * *

_AN: I seriously thought that Matt was going to get a nose bleed when Mello came out in his shirt. xD I had so many 'That's what she said!' moments while writing Mello looking at Matt's tattoo. Which will be described in more detail in the next chapter, promise. The idea was partly inspired by a doujinshi cover that shows part of Matt's arm, covered in ink. (Matt's leaning over a very cute looking Mello, who has his hair tied back. I can't remember the name of the doujinshi though! Ugh. No doubt it will come to me as soon as I post this.) My wonderful friend and editor Sam has a cousin who's a tattoo artist, so he helped me make sure everything was accurate. I hope this chapter was of my usual quality—I'm getting over the flu so I'm not really at my best. I had way too much fun writing this though, it made me feel better._

_I was very pleased with all the reviews I recieved from the last chapter, but I would love more! =D Please take a moment to tell me what you think. It really makes my day to hear from you guys! (Don't they say that reviews are the best medicine? Oh right, only I say that.) I'm aiming for, oh, say, fifteen reviews before I'm going to post the next chapter. ^^_

_This was written listening to 'Le Disko' by Shiny Toy Guns. (xD Random.) Might actually be plot-ish the next chapter...eh. Maybe._

_Edit: The doujinshi cover is 'Rag'. =D Thanks so much to Sir SmokesALot for reminding me. ^^_


	26. 25

"You can't be serious."

"Quite the contrary; I'm completely serious."

"There must be rules somewhere—some etiquette book or something—that says you can't do stuff like this."

"Etiquette says I shouldn't be doing a lot of things Matty. Does it really look like I care?"

"But it's my gift! You can't just dictate what you want, then it's not a gift anymore!"

He sighs. "You make me sound like such a tyrant. I'm not telling you what to give me—just _how_ you should give it to me. Anyways, you already got the damn tattoo, it's not like I can change it now. And it's my birthday, so you have to do what I say."

"Your birthday was yesterday!"

"But you aren't officially giving me my present until today, so all the rights and privileges roll over. Anyways, I wasn't even aware it was my birthday until it was almost over. So that in itself should entitle me at least another half day of festivities."

"It's not my fault you can't read a calendar."

"First, you don't own a calendar, so that's hypocritical. Secondly, it's your job to tell me stuff like that. You didn't even wish me happy birthday!"

"I did too!"

"At six at night, maybe."

"Hey, I put chocolate sauce on a _cake_ for you."

"How considerate; you actually did what I wanted for my _birthday_. It's not like the day in itself should get me what I want, no, you have to—"

"Okay, I get it!"

He smiles smugly. "Good. Get to it then."

"I feel like an idiot."

"You look like an idiot."

"Hey!" I yell indignantly. "I'm not even doing anything yet!"

"So? You said it first."

I glare at him—hard. He just gives me a sugary smile, waving his hand at me in a 'get on with it' sort of way. I don't even know how to start. I reach down for the hem of my shirt, and Mello smacks his hand onto his forehead. "For the love of God! You can't just take it off right away; you're supposed to make me want it."

"You don't want it?" I ask, confused.

"No, I find you repulsive." He deadpans. "Now make yourself sexy."

"But I'm not—"

"Shud'up! Swivel your hips—give me the sex eyes—something!"

"My hips don't really 'swivel'…"

His eye twitches. He sits up from where he'd been reclining against my headboard. "Are you totally sexually inept? Have I taught you nothing?"

"Is this a trick question…?"

He sighs, turning his head to the heavens as if to ask for help. I just stand awkwardly at the end of the bed.

"Can I take my shirt off now?"

"No!"

"Fine!" Jerk.

Mello climbs off the bed, just wearing a pair of my boxers. He likes to steal my underwear—dual meaning intended. (I don't mind either.) He comes to stand in front of me. He just appraises me for a moment before draping his arms around my neck, his chest barely brushing the front of my shirt. Just like that, he turns it on. I shiver a little—he parts his lips, warm breath ghosting over my face, his eyes hooded. He practically oozes sex—I gulp.

"Now…" His voice is husky. I can feel his fingertips trace the collar of my shirt, teasing the skin beneath with short nails. "Do _this_." He whispers against my ear. He pulls back just as quickly as he'd come on, leaving me dazed. He seems amused, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for me to try again.

I take a half step forward, crushing my lips against his. His back hits the wall, jolting both of us as I fist my fingers into his gorgeous hair. My tongue is down his throat, demanding a response. He takes my aggressive kiss passively for a moment, then proceeds to shove me off. I'm left panting, flushed and confused. "Not like _that_." He pouts, seeming unfazed by my passion.

God, this is so frustrating! "I don't even know what erotic dancing is!" I say desperately. "Can't we just have sex?!"

He frowns. "Come on Matt, the packaging is half the fun. Right now you're a brown paper bag. Give me some shiny paper to enjoy."

"But you already saw the tattoo!"

"No, I saw a mess of tape and bloody cotton swabs."

"Same difference!"

"I certainly hope not." He seems amused. "That would be a pretty shitty tattoo if it always looks like what I saw yesterday."

I growl, frustrated. He saunters over to the edge of the bed, sitting down again, facing me. I can tell he's trying to resist a smile. "You're enjoying watching me fail!" I realize, gaping at him. "You're fucking enjoying it!"

"Now you're just being ridiculous." He's laughing at me! Okay, maybe not out loud, but he might as well be! His eyes are alight with mischief.

I growl with frustration.

Mello rolls his eyes. "You're so difficult sometimes." He scoots back a little on the bed, leaning back on his arms, his legs spread apart so my attention is drawn south. He tilts his head to the side. "I never thought it would be so hard to teach someone how to be sexy."

"Well I'm sorry it's not innately ingrained in me." I say bitterly.

"People like you are the sort that would die in natural selection—no one would want to mate with you." He mutters, amused.

"Look who's talking!" I respond indignantly. "You're sleeping with a _guy_. Obviously you're not reproducing."

He frowns. "I could get any girl I want."

"I doubt it!"

We glare at one another, his cerulean gaze clashing with the gold tint of my goggles.

"I bet I could." He says, never one to turn down a challenge.

"Fine, go right ahead." I sneer.

"I will!" Wait—what?

Shocked, I watch as he stands up from the edge of the bed and stalks over to the dresser. He pulls open the drawer, grabbing some of his leather. He yanks on the pants, then a vest shortly after. His wounds must still be tender, but his face is blank.

"Y-You can't go out." I stumble over my words, grasping for a reason. "The police are looking for you, Kira—"

"Shut up _Mail_." His voice is venomous. "Go watch some porn or play one of your stupid games."

Dejected, I watch him walk out the door. It slams shut behind him, the final kick to my bruised ego. I screwed up, bad.

I crawl into bed shortly after his departure, burying myself in a cocoon of covers. I will it all to go away. I want Mello lying there against me. I want to go back in time, and try harder. I want to be sexy, like he wanted. I don't know how to be something I'm not, but if there's a way, I'll find it. Just to make him happy.

I wonder if she's pretty. The girl he picked out, that is. He probably went to some loud bar, set his sights on the most beautiful girl there, and got her to fall in love with him in a heartbeat. I wonder if she's blonde, like him. Or brunette. I bet she has long hair. It wouldn't be red—no, red's such an ugly color.

I curl in on myself, lighting another cigarette. I don't know how many I've smoked so far, but I had to open a new pack. My ash tray is overflowing. My tattoo is itchy—I don't scratch at it.

I wonder how their kids will look. Probably blonde, like Mel. It doesn't matter what she looks like. They'll be gorgeous, all troublemakers like their father. All geniuses. All little Mellos, beautiful. I'm so numb—I can't move.

It's my fault that he walked out. I told him to. I challenged him; never challenge Mello unless you can face the consequences. Now he has to go prove me wrong. Oh, how I wish I could be right. I wish that he was unattractive; his scar only enhances his dangerous nature. A dark, beautiful aura surrounds him. Danger, confidence, all coexist harmoniously inside of him. What exists inside of me? Clumsiness, lack of focus, laziness…I'm such a failure compared to him.

Come to think of it, everything I am is thanks to someone else. At Wammy's, I latched onto Mello. When he left, I followed Near. Then I found Mello again, and here we are. Or here I am. I'm nothing without him. I'm like a parasite—useless without my host. I don't do him any good, but suck away his life to sustain my own. I'm such a tool.

Maybe it's better this way. Mello can find a beautiful woman, someone who will actually give him what he wants. I try to think of a woman kissing Mello, and the very thought makes me feel physically ill. I can't even imagine other things. Someone else's hands on him—anyone's hands—makes me shake with rage.

That's it, I can't take it. I'm selfish. Call me self-centered, but like hell I'm just going to roll over like a dog, even if it's what's best for Mello. He's _mine_. I realize that now—I can't just let him go! I don't care if I have to chain him to the bed; I'm not letting him leave me like this. Not for some _girl_.

I scramble out of bed, grabbing at my cell phone. I'm still fully dressed, but I struggle to yank on one boot as I stumble towards the door. I hit the speed dial for Mello's cell phone, pinning it between my ear and shoulder while I pull on the second boot, wrenching open the door. It starts ringing, just as I move to step out the door—and trip, being the coordinated person I am, and fall flat on my face in the hallway.

"Holy shit Matt," I hear from behind me. My head, along with the rest of me, hurts. My goggles skewed when I landed my elegant fall, and I can't even move to get up. The world is sideways. I don't want to move, anything to keep that beautiful voice in my head.

But it's not just a voice. A hand grasps my shoulder, dragging me backwards, away from the floor. I scramble to get my legs beneath me and sit, looking, dazed, at the pair of concerned azure eyes staring back at me. "Damn, Matt, you're bleeding."

"W-What?" I taste copper, and lick my lips. The tender wound makes me cringe—I'd bit my lip on the way down.

He wipes at my chin with his thumb. "Klutz." He mutters, sighing a little.

"You…you were sitting outside my apartment?"

"_Our _apartment, dipshit. At least until you tripped over my legs. Way to look where you're going."

I'm shocked. "But…I thought you went to go find a girlfriend."

He rolls his eyes. "You're so melodramatic."

I gape at him. "Look who's talking, you just stormed out! Why didn't you come back in?!"

"I was waiting to see how long it'd take you to come get me."

I just stare at him.

He smiles a bit, and continues without prompting. "One hour and twelve minutes—which is pretty good, actually. I knew you were going to smoke through a pack or two before you decided to man up. You always like to sulk first."

I'm sucking on my lip, tasting my own blood. "Hey!" I frown, releasing my lip from the hold between my teeth. "I do not sulk." I pout, adjusting my crooked goggles.

Mello smiles, amused. "Sure you don't."

I scowl, but it's hard to be upset with him. He's here, instead of out with some girl. He stayed, waiting for me to calm down and realize how much I need him. My cell phone catches my attention, having fallen from my hold, lying on the ground about a foot away. I reach for it, noticing that it's still open and we're being recorded on Mello's voicemail. I frown. "Why didn't you pick up?" I flip it closed.

"Oh, I forgot my phone in the apartment." He snickers. "I was wondering if you'd just try to call me, or actually come looking. I couldn't just waltz back in there…"

I gape at him. "You ass! I just suffered from depression for one hour and…"

"Twelve minutes." He supplies with a smirk.

"Yeah! One hour and twelve minutes! I was miserable. If I would have called…"

"Poor baby." He pats my cheek.

I pull away from his mocking touch, pursing my lips. "You should have come back in…" I mumble. I start gnawing at my lower lip again, sucking off the oozing blood.

Mello chuckles. His anger at our earlier conversation seems to have completely dissipated. He must have done some thinking too. "Let me kiss it and make it better." He leans forward, but then rolls his eyes as he notices my hesitant look. "God, you're so insecure."

I bend back a little, uncertain. "Am not…"

"What's the matter now?" He asks, as if bored.

"I'm not sexy, Mel, I thought—"

"Yeah, you thought wrong." He interrupts me. He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I was wrong." He says it, so simply and so firmly, I'm stunned. He never admits a wrong.

"W-What?" I manage. "Mello, I'm not. We both know I'm not."

"You're right, you're not." He muses. "But that doesn't matter so much. Anyways, I don't think I'd like you so much if you were." He smirks. "You're already a cocky bastard; I don't want to you to be sexy to boot. Then I might have some competition for who has the biggest ego. Now hold still, you're going to get blood on your shirt."

I smile a bit, staying still as he leans forward. His lips part, tongue moving out of his moist mouth to lick the blood dribbling down my chin, much like a cat. I shiver a little as his hand finds the back of my hair. His lips close over mine. I grip the front of his vest, but don't move as his mouth moves carefully over mine, nibbling at my injured lip. I can taste my blood and his saliva, cigarettes and chocolate, metallic heaven.

We stay like that for a while, sitting on the hallway floor, kissing. I don't care if someone sees us—I actually hope someone does. I hope they see how my cheeks are flushed and can tell that my heart is pounding—I hope my love is as obvious as the tattoo covering my body. The kiss is unrushed and strangely gentle. I don't feel the need to make it fervent. We have all the time in the world to kiss like this.

After a while we break apart. I can see the hint of pink blood against his lips. I feel oddly proud of that—not of being a clumsy shit—but of having it obvious that he's mine. "Let's go in." He says finally. I just nod, and he helps me to my feet. I think I'm going to have a few bruises from falling, but that's nothing new. "Now, I want to see my birthday present." He smiles while closing the door. My lip has stopped bleeding under his ministrations.

I pull off my goggles, relieved that he doesn't seem to be expecting a show. Now just to contradict me, he whistles a catcall, although it's obvious he's joking. I raise an eyebrow in his direction, and he smirks. While I stand in the middle of the living room, he leans against the back of the couch, crossing his arms loosely.

My shirt comes off in one smooth motion, hitting the floor along with my goggles. I'd spent nearly half an hour this morning in the bathroom, just looking at it. I don't know why, but this tattoo makes me feel…good. While Mello has his scar, now I have this tattoo to make me look badass. I finally feel like I've reached the same level as him, even if it is just superficially. He has accomplished so much compared to me, but I want to feel like I'm worthy of him. This helps.

I can feel his eyes appraising me. I stand, a little uncomfortable under his gaze. Finally he straightens, sauntering over to circle me, and then come to stand in front of me again. "Okay, now I want to hear you explain it." He's smiling. It's so nice to see him smile—genuinely—not just a smirk, but a real smile.

I clear my throat, pointing to my left forearm with my right hand. "This here," I trace the weaving lines that create an abstract pattern. "Is our childhoods apart—sporadic, without purpose. Nothing." I glance up shyly, and he's smiling, so I trail up to my bicep where the pattern changes. A solid band there creates a break, and I encircle it with my hand. "Mourning, for your family and mine. For the lives we could have had but gave up." He just nods a little. My hand moves to rest against my shoulder. The pattern here is different. I trace the lines that lace together to create the outline of a series of bells—three total, surrounded by the ever present pattern that now covers this half of my body. The bells are easy to overlook in the design if you didn't know they're there. "These are for Wammy's."

"I miss those damn bells waking us up every morning."

I laugh a little. "You were always awake anyways."

He shrugs. "True. Those books wouldn't study themselves, you know." He waits expectantly for me to continue.

I just smile a bit, and trail my hand down from my shoulder to my left pectoral. Here the pattern shifts into the flames that lick at my skin like the dancing black fire of hell. "And here's your scar, from the explosion." The fire travels all the way down to my hipbone.

"It's kind of…pretty." He muses.

I scowl. "I wasn't really going for 'pretty.'"

Mello chuckles, a sound that vibrates up from his chest. "Fine, fine. You look 'dangerous.'" He's making fun of me—jerk. He leans forward to lightly kiss my cheek. "Finicky bastard." He laughs. "Show me the rest."

I growl.

"Down pup." He twirls his finger, and I turn, scowling, to let him see my back. I jump a little when he rests his hand against my shoulder blade, tracing the pattern with his fingertips. "You want to explain why you have a cross on your back?" He doesn't seem upset, just curious. "You're pretty much allergic to church."

"Well…" I shift uncomfortably, but his hand stays in place against my skin. "It's not exactly a religious reference—well, I guess it is. But…"

"Matt, what have we talked about?" I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Think about your words before you open your mouth, or else it's going to sound like you're retarded."

I decide to ignore that and continue. "It's just…I don't really feel like God exists in church."

"Okay, I'm listening."

"When we were apart after Wammy's, things got really hard for me. Sometimes, when it was really bad, I'd pray, like you taught me. But nothing ever came of it. I don't think God listens to stuff like that."

"Matt, I've told you, you can't ask for material things when—"

"I know, I know." I interrupt him to continue. "It's just, you always stuck to being Catholic, even though you never got anything…real out of it. You know, only spiritual stuff. So whenever I felt alone I'd just…talk to Him. I thought that…maybe if we talked to Him at the same time, then I could hear you."

I wait for a smart aleck remark that never comes, so I go on. It's like tearing open a wound on my heart, and my voice shakes a little with emotion. "I never did, but I still felt like…if things got bad enough, He'd intervene. Since I was praying and stuff, He had to take care of me, right? So I just kept doing it, even without really thinking about it. I know you have all those memorized prayers, but I didn't know any of those, so I just made it up. I liked having someone to talk to. I don't know if it was God, really, but it felt like…it felt like us, together again. Sharing everything with someone. It made me feel better."

Mello's silent behind me, but his hand slides down, off of my shoulder. I think that he's going to step away from me, but instead he steps closer and wraps his arms around my torso. His head rests against my shoulder blade, and I feel him exhale. "Matt…why didn't you ever tell me about this?" His voice is low.

"I just," My voice lodges in my throat, and I swallow with some effort. "I thought you'd make fun of me. I mean, talking to God? Isn't that against the rules or something? I felt like I was crazy sometimes…"

"No." His voice is fierce, and surprises me. "You're better at it than most people who go to church for years."

"I don't know about that…"

"You're better than me." He says simply. "I pray, but it's because I feel like I have to in order to be a good Catholic…my heart isn't in it like yours is."

"But you're going to get to go to Heaven because you're a Catholic!" I say, my voice cracking. "I'm going to have to go to—"

"Don't you dare say it!" His voice is furious. "Don't you even think that Matt!" His arms tighten around me. "Being Catholic doesn't mean I get to go to Heaven. I've committed too much sin in my life…believing in God, that's what gets you into Heaven, and I know you do. That's where you'll end up."

I'm frantic for a moment. "Wait, but I don't want to go if you're not going to be there!"

He sighs. "No, I'm not giving you a choice. If that's where you end up, then you're going to love it. You won't even be thinking of me."

"Of course I'll be thinking of you!"

"Stop talking nonsense."

"Shut up! I want to be with you!"

"You want to go to Hell?!"

"…" I pause. "Maybe I do." I say decisively.

Mello groans against my shoulder, and I feel him shake his head a little. "Matt, you're such an idiot."

"I'm _your_ idiot."

"Then I'm sending _my_ idiot to Heaven. Stop being stupid—you don't even get to decide, God will decide for you."

"That's not very fair! I bet if I ask Him to be with you, He'd let me."

"It doesn't work like that."

"You don't know—I've talked to Him more than you, so I'd know!"

"Like hell you do!"

"You're just jealous!"

"Jealous that you're going to Heaven, or that you have these cozy fireside chats with God?"

"Both, probably."

He's silent for a moment. "Matt, seriously though. I really don't know where either of us is going—we shouldn't even be talking about this."

"You brought it up…" I say, ever the mature one.

He chuckles, pressing his lips against my shoulder for a moment. "I hope we both end up in Heaven." He says finally. "But we'll just have to wait and see."

"Next time I talk to Him, I'll ask and let you know." I offer lightly.

"You do that." I can tell he just rolled his eyes, even though I can't see him. "So you got the cross because you like talking to God?" He clarifies.

"Oh, not entirely."

"Then what was all that crap you just babbled on about?!"

"I got it 'cause of Jesus. It just reminded me of the other stuff too."

"Did you really just say 'cause in the same sentence as—"

"Shut up, I'm talking." I interrupt smugly. "Jesus is the son of God, right?"

"Yes, but technically the Trinity is—"

"Right, so his son came to earth and died."

"For our sins." Mello provides blandly.

"Exactly. So I was thinking—"

"Never a good thing."

"—And I thought, 'He's a pretty good guy, giving up his life for us sinners. We didn't really deserve it.'"

I know he's rolling his eyes, but by some miracle remains silent.

"And I thought…you're a lot like that."

I know that took him off guard. "Did you just compare me to Jesus?!" He demands.

"Well…yeah."

"Matt! Have you completely lost your mind?! You just compared me to the son of God! Do you have any idea how sacrilege that is?"

"I'm not trying to say you're holy or anything like that, because I know you're not. Seeing as you've fucked me in the—"

"For the love of _God_."

"But anyways," I brush it off and continue. "I think that you're a martyr."

"What the fuck Matt?! Being a martyr means you're _dead_. And even that doesn't make me Jesus!"

"Same difference." I reply, irritated. He's ruining my explanation!

"No, big difference!" I have no idea why he's kept his hold around my middle all this time—although it's easier to talk to him when I don't have to look him in the eye. Especially when he gets annoyed like this. "Jesus died for the sins of all mankind! I'm just a second-rate mafia dropout who's trying to arrest the most elusive criminal in the world. And I'm _not_ dead."

"You're missing the connection!"

"And you're missing a few brain cells! I knew smoking was bad for you, but do you listen to me? Nooo."

"Ugh, you're impossible."

He's silent for a moment. Finally, he sighs. "Okay, fine. Explain."

I lean my head back a little to rest it against the top of his. "You gave up everything to fight against Kira. Nobody knows it, but you're saving the world. Think of all the good you're doing for mankind. Fighting against evil and all that."

"Well if those are the requirements for being a martyr, you're one too."

"Am not."

"Don't be a stubborn ass—you're doing the same as me."

I sigh. "I guess, technically. But it's not the same."

"You make about as much sense as Near's white puzzles."

"I guess you're right." I sigh. "I don't know, the cross just felt right."

"Okay, good enough." We're silent for a moment. He's still holding me. Finally, he continues, "Anything else on this beast of a tattoo you want to show me?"

"Oh, there's an M down here."

He pulls back to see where, and I reach around to my lower back to point to an M that weaves into the pattern. He laughs a bit. "Anything deep and meaningful about that one?"

"Of course!" I reply, feigning shock. "I want you to see it when we're fucking."

"How profound."

"Indeed. I couldn't just put it on my ass, because you're too busy pounding your—"

"I get it, I get it. Sheesh, I think I need to teach you decency."

"Look who's talking."

"Touché."

I turn, since he's no longer holding onto me. He meets my gaze, and we both smile. "It's kind of a precarious spot. I don't know if I can see it alright."

"We should try it and make sure." I say sullenly.

"That's probably a good idea; keep in mind, I'm only doing this for your sake."

"How selfless of you."

"I am like Jesus after all."

* * *

_AN: My, what a mess writing this chapter was! I went into this with a plan to make Matt dance erotically and describe his tattoo. I came out of it with the Matt and Mello getting into a fight, Matt sulking, and a contemplation on death, the afterlife, and God. I really don't know how things like that happen. When I say that I have no control over the happenings in this story, it's true. Really, they have minds of their own. I had some serious writers block when they were in the hallway, that's why this chapter was delayed. Sorry for making you all wait so long, I hope it lives up the expectation! (If we have any artists out there, I would love to see some interpretations of Matt's tattoo. I might attempt to draw it myself, but my art is with words, not pictures, and I'm afraid it would probably be a disgrace to poor Matt. Dx I would be more than willing to complete a one-shot with a plot of your choice in exchange for a piece of art! Also, you'd be my favorite person. =3) Geez this was long. (Carpal tunnel FTW!)_

_I feel so demanding to ask for reviews—how selfish of me! Here I spend hours a day (quite literally,) writing, editing and uploading for your enjoyment and I ask for you to actually take half a minute and tell me what you think. Slap my wrist. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review so far, it's so encouraging, and means a lot to me. =)_

_This was written listening to 'Bullets & Guns' by Them Terribles. (Seriously, it was on repeat for nearly the entire chapter. xD I dub it their theme song—until I get tired of it, that is.)_


	27. 26

Mello is such a pain in the ass when he's sick. But I guess there is the problem—he's not really sick. Regardless of this fact, I am forcing pain medicine and antibiotics down his throat at periodic intervals. I have to make sure that he puts the burn cream on twice a day, and check to see that he's eating enough. He's getting annoyed with my mothering.

It's not _my_ fault he went and blew himself up. (I've told him before; I'm the only one allowed to blow him.) I'm just looking out for his best interests. If he gets another infection, he could die. I don't want him hurting too much, because even though he doesn't say so, I can see the way his face gets taunt with pain if I let him go too long. (If it were left up to him, he'd probably just pop pills every time he felt a twinge and end up overdosing.) The food is just to help him regain his strength, and I only check up on him because I know he'd forget otherwise! It's not like I have anything better to do—I cancelled all my jobs for at least the next week. (Christmas is coming up, so my busy season is pretty much over anyways. It should pick up again about February.)

Mello is insistent that while I'm around the apartment, I'm no longer allowed to wear a shirt. At first it was kind of weird, going around half naked, but I get used to it pretty fast. He says that he likes to see my tattoo (and my abs—which is funny, because I don't even _have_ abs.) My self-inflicted burn heals up nicely. I stop bandaging it after a few days, and once the blisters heal up it feels okay. I'm probably going to have a scar, but I don't mind so much. My body's taking a pretty good beating, and all of it is my own doing. I'm pretty damn proud of myself.

When I get up, nearly a week after Mello's accident, I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and find Mello there with a pair of scissors in hand, cutting his hair over the sink. I just watch on for a moment, trying not to look as amused as I feel. He's leaned over the counter, picking at his hair to try to find the singed pieces. He's frowning, and I know he can see me in the mirror, but he doesn't say anything. It looks as though he's cutting at random now, pieces of blonde hair falling into the sink.

"I hope you're going to clean that up." I say, grabbing my toothbrush off the counter.

He looks frustrated. "Hypocrite, it's not like you actually clean up after yourself. I don't even know how you get water on the mirror—near the _ceiling_."

"It splatters, okay?" I huff, reaching around him to turn on the faucet and get my toothbrush wet. I get the toothpaste out of the medicine cabinet and start brushing.

"Maybe if you're having a seizure it splatters." He mumbles, snipping off another lock of beautiful hair.

I watch, slightly upset. "You're going to ruin it." I say, slurred around my toothbrush.

"It's already ruined." Is his bland response.

"You just need to cut off all the burned stuff on the left, then make the right side match."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?!"

"I don't know, it kind of looks like you're mutilating it."

He turns to glare at me. I cough. "I need to spit." I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. He rolls his eyes and steps back to allow me to spit in the sink. I turn on the water again, washing some of his hair down the drain the process. I return my toothbrush to its place on the counter. "Maybe I could—"

"I'm not letting you cut my hair." He interrupts waspishly.

I scowl. "I could do a better job. You're not going to be able to see the back you know."

"I'll hold my shaving mirror behind my head while standing in front of this mirror here. I'll see it just fine."

"And you're going to reach around to cut at it? Sounds like a master plan, genius. Maybe we could get some sheep shears, and just start hacking."

"Aren't you just the embodiment of witticism." He sneers. "I'm getting along just fine, thanks."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, standing at his side for a moment as I watch him in the mirror while he continues to ruin his hair. "Suit yourself, I guess." I shrug, and leave him alone.

My Nintendo DS hasn't gotten much of a workout lately, so I grab it and flop down on the couch. I'm absorbed in playing, a cigarette dangling between my lips while both hands are occupied. I'm too distracted to look up when Mello enters the room. He doesn't say anything, so I figure he's not going to complain about how crappy his hair looks. Then he takes me off guard—he fucking _sits_ on me. Since I'm sprawled out he plops himself down on my lower stomach. I splutter, nearly dropping my game. "What the hell?" I demand, trying to shove him off. "Get your bony butt out of my crotch! I'm busy!"

He scowls, sending me a death look that immediately silences my complaints. Even though it is kind of uncomfortable having him sitting on me like that. He mumbles something I don't quite catch. "What was that?" I prompt, raising an eyebrow.

"I want you to cut my hair!" He snaps.

I can't help but be surprised at his change of heart. "Really?"

"Yes." He says, although he doesn't sound so sure. "But if you screw it up, you're sleeping on the floor."

"It's already kind of—"

"Shut up, I know!" He interrupts, irritated. "Now fix it."

I half shrug, saving my game and shutting it off. I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, and he gets up to allow me to stand. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking pissed off. I didn't do anything! Sheesh, he's so moody. "We should cut it in the kitchen, so your hair won't get all over the carpet." I suggest.

"No, I want to do it in the bathroom so I can see what you're doing in the mirror."

"You're so paranoid—there's not enough room in the bathroom. I had to practically be on top of you to just brush my teeth."

He's frowning. "I don't trust you." He says plainly.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Come on, it's not like I'm going to cut it all off. I like your hair."

"Yeah, but when I was thirteen you tried shave off my eyebrows while I was sleeping."

I balk. "That was forever ago! And it was April Fool's day, come on. Then you beat me up, so we were even."

"I didn't beat you up—"

"I had to explain to Roger how I got hit in the eye with the _door_."

Mello snickers. "Oh, I forgot about that. You always made up such shitty excuses."

I purse my lips. "Do you want me to cut your hair or not?"

Finally he sighs. "I guess I don't have any other choice."

I roll my eyes at his dramatics, and go to grab one the folding chairs from the side of our card table and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor. He sits down, watching me wearily. He hands me the scissors. "Don't ruin it."

"I'm not going to ruin it."

"That's what you said about my science project in sixth grade."

"How the hell do you remember all this stuff?! And that wasn't my fault. You can't just leave a nuclear power generator sitting on my bed and not expect repercussions."

He just scowls at the cabinets, and I start cutting. First order of business, I cut off all the pieces of singed hair that he'd missed. Then I try to even it out on one side, then the other. Now, keep in mind, I'm no hairdresser. I don't actually brush my hair in the morning, if I can avoid it. He's cringing every time I cut—you'd think I was actually slicing his skin. How irritating. I'm doing my best here! The back pocket of my jeans starts to ring, and the scissors slip a little while I'm cutting. "Ah, shit."

He freezes. "Did you just…?" His voice is dangerously low.

"No, no!" I laugh nervously. "It looks perfect." I'm cursing inside my head while I fish out my cell phone. He's already up on his feet, running into the bathroom to check his hair. (I'm going to fix it, okay?)

When I read the caller ID, I automatically hit 'Ignore' and head into the bathroom after Mello. I'm stuffing my cell back into my pocket when I walk in on him, leaned over the sink, inspecting my job so far. "It's just a little shorter right there." I try to laugh it off. "I'll fix it."

"Yes, you will." He growls. "Who was it?"

"Who was what?" I ask, picking a piece of hair off his shirt.

"The phone, dumbass."

"Oh, that. Wrong number."

He just shrugs—and my phone starts ringing again. I curse out loud this time, pulling it out and jamming the 'Ignore' button again, as if the caller might be able to feel the ferocity with which I pressed it. His eyes narrow at me. "That was _him_, wasn't it?"

"No." I squeak. It starts ringing _again_, and this time Mello snatches the phone out of my hand before I can end the call.

He looks at the caller ID, which only says 'Restricted,' and he narrows his eyes. He flips it open and barks into the receiver, "Who the fuck is this?" He flips the phone closed after hearing no less than three words from the caller. "What the _hell_ Matt?! What's the prick calling you for?"

"How am I supposed to know?! I didn't answer it, did I?" It starts ringing again—ugh!

Mello opens the phone, and then yells into it, "Stop calling this number, we're busy fucking!" He slams it closed again, letting out a huff of anger.

I can't help the color that floods to my cheeks. Not exactly what I wanted Near to know—although he _is_ a genius, he must have figured it out by now.

"I don't want you taking calls from him." He snaps.

I can't help but feel putout. "Mel, I wasn't! But I do owe him, after you crashed, and he helped—"

"I don't care!" He interrupts irritably. "You don't owe him a damn thing; don't let that manipulative bastard take advantage of you!"

I let that sink in for a moment, realization dawning on me. "You…you're jealous of Near?" I say in disbelief.

The irritation on his face becomes more pronounced. "Don't be an idiot."

"Oh my God, you are!"

"You have an overactive imagination. I just don't want you talking to the little twit. He's bad news Matty."

"You're using the possessive voice!"

"I don't have a 'possessive' voice. Now you're just making things up."

"Do you really think I'd sleep with Near?"

His face is horrified—oops, I probably shouldn't have said that. "What?!" He demands.

"I asked if you _thought_ I would…" I say hesitantly.

"What would even possess you to _say_ something like that?" He asks incredulously.

"I don't know, I thought that was what you were thinking!"

"I'm thinking it _now_. What did you do while we were apart after Wammy's?!"

"Well I sure as hell didn't sleep with Near! I don't even think he's gay—or straight, for that matter. He's asexual."

Mello actually laughs out loud, an abrupt sound that startles me. I'm afraid that he's lost it and is going to go manic and hit me. I cringe back, waiting for a blow that never comes. "We should drive to his headquarters and have sex in the parking lot."

Okay, that is the last thing I expected him to say. "Um…why would we do that?" I ask timidly.

"So he can see us on the security cameras, of course."

I let out a small sigh. "Isn't that going a little overboard?"

"Fuck no. Serves him right."

"Don't you think it's a little…I don't know, sick? For him to watch us having sex? Doesn't that creep you out?"

Mello frowns, considering this for a moment. "You're right…I don't want him to see you naked. Pervert."

I somehow manage to resist the urge to smack my own forehead. I just nod sullenly. "Better not to encourage him." Mercifully, Near hasn't tried calling my phone again. I don't know what Mello would do if he did. "We should finish your hair." I change the subject smoothly.

Mello shrugs a little, having already calmed down. His moodiness gives me whiplash sometimes. "Yeah, I guess. You better make it look good."

I smile weakly. "I'll make it look great." I promise lamely.

We head back into the kitchen and I get to work again, smoking through a few cigarettes in the process. It doesn't look bad, just different than before. Rougher—I can't get it all an even length so it looks a little messier than what he was used to. I don't think it's a bad thing though, I actually kind of like it more this way. While I'm just finishing up the back, there's a knock at the door. I jump, because no one ever comes to our apartment. Mello tenses up as well. He tilts his head back, and we exchange a glance.

"I'll get it." He says, starting to get up.

I put my hand on his uninjured shoulder and force him back into the chair. He sends me an irritated look. "No, you can't. You're already in enough trouble." I lower my voice. "It could be the police."

"The police haven't been known to knock." He deadpans, using a normal volume.

"Just go into the damn bedroom." I hiss.

Mello rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine. Grab your gun though."

I nod, watching him go. My gun's in the bedroom, but his is in a holster over by the door. I grab that one for convenience sake, and check to make sure that it's loaded then cock it. "Yeah, who is it?" I call through the wood. It's too cheap to actually have one of those little peep holes.

"I've got a delivery for a Mr. Matthew Jenkins and Mel-Mello? Mello Kael." Says a muffled voice from the other side.

"That so?" I respond, a frown creasing my features. "Who's it from?"

"There's no return address—it was shipped over from the UK though."

"Huh. Okay, you can leave it outside the door."

"Sorry sir, but you've got to sign for it."

Annoyed, I throw open the door. The delivery boy looks surprised by my appearance. Tattered jeans are tucked into knee-high combat boots; I'm not wearing a shirt, my fresh tattoo dancing inky black over pale skin, yet for whatever reason I am wearing a pair of black leather gloves up to my forearms. A half-smoked cigarette dangles from my lips, golden goggles pulled over my eyes, musing messy red hair. I keep my hand holding the gun behind the door and out of his view.

"Um, just…here, sign here." He stutters, moving to hand me a clipboard.

I sigh a little. He's holding the package under one arm, one of those fat padded envelopes. I need to use two hands, so I pull my arm out from behind the door, pushing the gun into the back of my pants. I see his eyes widen at the sight of a firearm, but ignore it, and take the clipboard to sign it. I hand it back, and he looks puzzled, but hands over the package regardless. Matthew Jenkins only signs 'Matt,' in a very lazy, unpracticed signature. (It's not like I sign stuff every day.)

I push shut the door before he's turned around to leave, essentially slamming it in his face. I'm inspecting the package while Mello watches me with an amused expression from the doorway to the bedroom. I grab the scissors I'd been using to cut his hair to slice open the top of the envelope. "He seemed dangerous." Mello muses.

I roll my eyes. "Shut up, you're even more paranoid than I am." I tip the envelope over on the counter, and out tumbles a bunch of papers. I look at the pile, frowning. On top is a sealed letter, so I grab that and rip it open.

"What is it?" Mel asks as he wanders over, picking up some of the contents to sift through.

I stamp out my cigarette in the kitchen sink, (the closest place,) while my eyes skim over the letter. "It's from Roger."

"How cordial of him. Read it out loud."

"Dear boys—I'm feeling the love, aren't you?" I interject.

"Read the letter, Matty." Mello says, rolling his eyes.

I clear my throat and start again. "Dear boys, while I am aware you have been working on the Kira case for some time since your departure, many of your belongings were left at the house. Most have been given to other children or destroyed, depending on their personal nature. The information I'm sending you is all the files and paperwork that has been kept on you up until this point. I felt as though this would provide the proper closure to your childhoods here, and efficiently cut any remaining ties you have with Wammy's. I would hate to have this information leak into the wrong hands, so you may do with it what you wish. Near has received a similar package. My regards, Roger." I raise an eyebrow. "What the fuck?"

"Your Mom was blonde?" Mello asks, his eyebrows rising.

My jaw drops. "Give that!" I snatch the photo out of his hand. "How the hell did they get all this shit?" I study my young face and that of the woman who is standing beside me, smiling. "I never even saw this photo." I close my hand around it, efficiently crumpling it.

"Beats me." Mello shrugs, pawing through more of the paperwork. "Good thing we got all this now though—Kira's going to be looking for my picture."

"He's always been looking for your picture Mel." I state the obvious, dropping the balled up photo beside the pile.

Mello frowns a little, looking down at another nameless piece of paperwork. "Yeah, but now he's really going to want it. He…got my name Matty."

I'm frozen. One week, a whole week we'd been together here, and he hasn't mentioned that he is one step closer to death. "Why…you didn't tell me." I finish as a statement, slumping a little, defeated.

"I knew you'd worry about it." He brushes it off like it's nothing. "Forget about it Matt, I'm going to take care of it."

I'm too shocked to respond. I'm safe—Mello's made sure that I'm completely unknown—but he isn't. He's so far from safe. I feel like I'm standing behind him, watching Kira's pen carve death into his chest. Coward—merciless coward. Who kills with the flick of their wrist? Does he watch the pain, the death, written on the face of the man he condemns? Has he feared for the life of a friend, a lover? Because you cannot truly understand the horrors of death until you face losing the one you care about most. My life would be a drop in the bucket, so insignificant, yet Mello…no, Mello needs to live. I'm so selfish for wanting to keep him here for myself. I can't let him go. I have to keep him safe.

"We should leave." I say around the lump rising in my throat. "Run—there's still time to run."

Mello shakes his head no. "We gave that option up a long time ago Mail." He says softly.

My vision is blurry through the goggles. "We can go back to England." I ignore his statement. "Catch a plane, I'll get us passports. We'll get a little apartment in Westminster, come on. We can sleep all day and stay up all night. Drink tea instead of coffee, eat crumpets or other nonsense. The food was always crappy, but I don't care. I'll cook, I'll make us food."

He steps forward, putting his hands on my shoulders. I hadn't realized how badly I'm shaking. "Matt." He says seriously, meeting my gaze through the yellow lenses of my goggles. "Get a hold of yourself."

"No, no! There's still time!" My voice catches. "We're not dead, you're not dead, we can go. Forget about Near. Forget about Kira! Come with me, we'll make love every day, until neither of us can walk. We'll buy the nice sheets. I'll get us real plates instead of the cheap plastic ones. I'll give up videogames, please, let's just go! We can leave everything here and just start over—" My voice breaks off as he slaps me, hard, right across the cheek. I'm breathing unevenly; the sting isn't exactly painful, just sobering. He could have punched me, but he didn't. No, he's not mad. He's just grounding me. I hiccup, a dry, pathetic sob that's too painful for tears. I just stare ahead, not really seeing. "We're going to die." I whisper.

"No." He shakes his head a little. "You'll be okay."

"No!" I yell, stumbling back a step, his hands falling off of me. He's looking down at his feet. "I want you to be okay Mel! You! Stop it; I'm not letting you die alone!"

"I knew I shouldn't have told you." He says, gritting his teeth.

"Of course you should have!" I scream. "You owe it to me; we've been through so much together. Do you really think so little of me that you feel the need to leave me out of the loop?!"

"Stop twisting it around!" He snaps at me. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd freak out like this. I can't change what happened, okay?"

"But you can change the future! We're all making choices Mel—you're going to die if we don't do something!"

"I said I'm going to take care of it!"

"Liar! You're going to keep going until we're both dead!"

"I told you I'd keep you safe."

"I don't want you to keep me safe, I want you to keep yourself safe!"

"Stop being an idiot. We knew all along this would be dangerous; I don't want either of us to die, but if someone has to—"

"It's not going to be you!" I interrupt, fuming. "Let Near be the sacrificial lamb! No one would miss him anyways."

"Matt," A look of irritation crosses Mello's face. "Stop it. We're going to have to do what we can. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is."

I'm silent now. There's no arguing with him. I look away, trying to push back the water flooding my eyes and the lump blocking my throat. He, mercifully, turns to look through the pile again to give me a moment to my thoughts.

I've calmed down by the time he finishes sifting through all of it, and he's looking at the envelope now. He seems a little amused. "Jenkins and Kael…Ha." He laughs without humor. "I wonder what Near got…Near Stream?"

We both pause, exchanging a look. I can't resist a smile, and he smirks a little. "Maybe Near Reservoir." I suggest.

Mello chuckles. It's such a nice sound, and I can't help but feel a little better, even though nothing has changed. "Makes perfect sense," He muses.

We're quiet for a few minutes while Mello picks up a list of our scores from school. He reads absentmindedly. "Hey Matt," He says to get my attention, but he already has it. He always has it. "Where's that picture of me—the portrait shot from when we were kids."

"What portrait shot?"

"You know the one. You kept it in your sock drawer. You wrote something sappy and stupid on the back."

"Did not." I mumble, looking away, cheeks flushed. He smirks. "I brought it with me when I left Wammy's."

"You want to get it? We can add it to the pile; we need to get rid of all this stuff."

"Uh…" I pause, a stone settling into the pit of my stomach. "I don't exactly…have it."

Mello frowns. "Did you burn it already?"

"Not exactly…you see, I actually kept it at work…"

"You work at home."

"No, I mean, when I worked with—"

"Oh my _God_." Mello interrupts me, a look of pure horror on his face. "Please—_please_ tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."

"What do you think I'm saying?" I ask timidly.

"Matt! Why the hell would you leave that behind?!"

"I was going to go find you; I didn't need a stupid picture! And I was kind of in a hurry. I didn't exactly take any of my stuff."

Mello raises his hands to rub his temples, letting out a small, frustrated sigh. "I have to get it back."

"What?!" I demand. "Of course you don't! Mel, it's _Near_. He's not going to try to kill you. He'll keep it safe."

"We can't take any chances." His words are cutting, and I feel that sinking feeling again—this is all my fault.

"I should go." I offer. "I'm the one who put it in Near's hands in the first place."

"This isn't your fight Matt." He says irritably. "I'll do it. It's my picture."

I just sigh, and let it go. Although I have a feeling that even if it was my picture, Mello would say the same thing. He fights for the both of us, whether I like it or not.

* * *

_AN: Oh my goodness, what a pain this chapter was. xD I'm thinking that it's only going to get tougher from here on out. Blah. I apologize for my lack of updates, these next few weeks are very busy for me. (I have AP testing. D=) I took a lot of liberty with this chapter, and I'm pleased with the result. I had some fun messing with their names. In case you've forgotten, their real names are Mail Jeevas, Mihael Keehl, and Nate River. (I'm not even going to say those are spoilers. xD This whole story is a spoiler. So there.) Matt sleeping with Near. xD What a mental image. That's all I have to say._

_Wow! I am all warm and fuzzy inside from the **wonderful** response to the last chapter. =D You guys are so amazing._

_This was written listening to 'It's Not My Time' by 3 Doors Down._


	28. 27

I'm sitting outside of Near's headquarters—it's causing a serious déjà vu moment. I kind of want to blow it up, but I should probably wait for Mello to get out before I attempt something like that. I'm sitting on his motorcycle, the engine on and purring beneath me. This had been our deal; I accompany him here, but I'm not allowed inside. I just have to watch the bike, and be ready to drive off at a moment's notice.

Mello told me that if something went wrong, I'm supposed to just leave. Like hell. I agreed just to pacify him. Kind of like how he agreed to wear a wire just to appease me. I hacked the security system easily to get him inside, and I listened in on his interaction with Halle—then he turned off the wire. That bastard! I know I shouldn't be worried, but not being able to hear what is going on is a little unnerving.

It's really cold outside, and my fur lined vest isn't quite doing it for me. I light up a cigarette, leaning back a bit on the bike. The warm smoke fills my lungs as I inhale, and I feel a little better. The wait is tedious, and I wonder if anyone's checked the security cameras and knows I'm out here. Probably not; Mello's keeping them busy, no doubt.

He's been so stressed the last few days. Ever since he figured out that Near has his picture, he's been plotting how to go about getting it back. He used my knowledge of the building and computer skills to map out the place, and then drew up a plan. He's so methodical sometimes.

I exhale; grey smoke mingles with my warm breath to create a puff of steam. I tilt my head back to watch it float up towards the streetlamp above my head. The yellow bulb flickers, glaring horribly through the lenses of my goggles. I feel as though I'm looking into the sun in the middle of the night, but don't mind so much if I go blind.

Cars are whizzing by on the street beside me. The parking lot is mostly empty. I hear the door swing open, and don't even need to look. I drop the half smoked cigarette and crush it under the toe of my boot, yanking on my helmet once more. I can pick out his mood by the sound of his footfalls—irritated, it seems. Mello climbs onto the bike behind me, completely silent. When his arms wrap around my torso I rev the engine. We completely bypass the exit to the parking lot, instead just hopping onto the sidewalk and swerving into traffic. I hear a few people lay on their horns at me, but ignore it, and head for home.

Normally he'd take this sort of opportunity to feel me up, (he likes to distract me while I'm driving,) but he does nothing. His arms remain tight around my middle. I'm starting to get a little worried. We reach the apartment and he's off before I can turn off the engine. He's stalking up the stairs. I sigh a little, following up after him, always three steps behind.

When I close the door behind me, he's holding his own photo between two fingers, leaning against the kitchen counter. He's staring at the incriminating picture, frowning. He extends his other hand, palm up in my direction, seeming to want something. I don't even have to ask, fumbling in my pocket to grab my lighter and hand it to him. He flips open the top and the soft orange flame dances to life. I'm mesmerized by the fire, by his silence, and by this picture that could have ruined our lives. He holds the picture above the lighter and the flames lick hungrily at the edge. The young Mello dies smiling, engulfed in flames.

Things have been tense the last few days. Mello became buried in work, obsessed as he often is. Normally I wouldn't mind, but now we were dancing around one another. He must feel the pressure—our lives are in his hands. He decided to keep going, so it would all come back to him if something went wrong. He knew that. Getting his picture back is a small but decisive victory. I had helped him, not because I felt like I had to, or because I had nothing better to do. No, I helped him because I wanted to. I've always wanted to, and even though I wanted to run to safety, I wanted to be with him more. So I'd stay, loyal as always, and help him win.

I gulp, an audible sound. He still hasn't said anything. While his leather clad fingers grip the top edge of the photo, the fire consumes it. Finally he turns and drops the burning memory into the sink, leaving it to devour itself until only a charred mess of broken dreams and could-have-beens remains.

He watches it for a moment, but the picture is out of my view. I hover uncertainly in the junction of the living room and the kitchen. It seems that his mind is somewhere else completely. Abruptly, he looks up at me. I smile weakly; his gaze is cold and blank. "We have a lot of work to do."

"It's the middle of the night Mel…let's just go to sleep."

He frowns a little. "You can go to bed, if you want." I hate it when he does that. It irks me to no end. He brushes past me to go sit down at my desk and turn on the computer. While he's given me the option to just leave him out here, I feel obligated to stay. Like I'm a flake if I don't; a failure; a coward.

I let out a small sigh, shifting my feet as I look down. "What do you need?" I ask blandly.

He doesn't miss a beat—I guess I really am predictable. "Full access to the security at SPK headquarters; I want a wire tap in every room, and two camera feeds rolling at all times. You got enough power to take that whole building?"

I glance to my pile of electronics in the corner. While he currently occupies my main computer, I have at least six others available. "Of course."

"Good. I'm going to work on getting Misa Amane's residence tapped as well." He turns back to the desktop, starting to type away.

I wait a moment to see if he'll say anything else; he doesn't. I go and grab my laptop, booting it up and starting my work. It's five in the morning when I finally fall asleep. I am stationed on the couch, because the folding chairs around our table are too uncomfortable for prolonged periods of sitting. I don't remember falling asleep, but I was somewhere between the security system on the ground floor of the SPK, and the wire patterns in their ceiling. While this is indeed enthralling work, I am exhausted, mentally and physically. I haven't slept well in days; my diet of cigarettes, Mountain Dew and ramen is not exactly the best way to stay awake.

While the couch is comfortable, it's not _that_ comfortable. The cushions are a little lumpy and the fabric is ripped on the arm that I ended up resting my head against. Cheap stuffing surrounds me like a foam halo. I'm used to sleeping in uncomfortable positions, so with laptop on my chest, I eventually nod off. I don't dream of a damn thing.

When I wake again, it's not my own doing. Someone is gently shaking my shoulders. The scenery has changed, and I have to blink a few times to realize that I have somehow made it into the bedroom. Mello is sitting on the edge of the bed where I'm laying on top the covers; he's wearing the same clothes as the night before. I look past him to the clock on the bedside table—it's just after noon. What the hell, why had he let me sleep?!

"Wh-Wha?" I ask groggily, rubbing at my eyes. (Since he'd let me sleep, why hadn't he let me sleep _longer_?)

"Hurry up; you need to be at the airport in an hour. Go shower."

I process those words for a minute. "Airport?" I repeat dumbly.

"Yeah," His face is void of emotion. "Plane takes off at five. You know how LAX can be, you have to get there really early."

"Where are we going?" I ask, uncomprehending. I push myself up to sit; my clothes are all wrinkled from sleep.

"You're going to Winchester."

My eyebrows furrow. "I thought you didn't want to go back to England."

"I'm not going—you are."

It finally sinks in what he's telling me. He's sending me away, and staying here to face certain demise alone. I frown. "Mello—"

"Matt, you're going. Don't even try to say no."

"Will you just let me talk for once?" I snap, and it seems to surprise him. I rarely raise my voice at him. He's quiet, allowing me to continue. "I decided to stay with you Mel. Doing something like this without my consent is not okay!"

He frowns. "You'll be safe, and happy. You're going back to where you want to be."

I feel like ripping out my hair. "I want to be with you! God, you're so dense! I'm not just going to leave you here alone."

"I'm not giving you a choice." His voice is hardened. "If something happened to you…I'd never forgive myself."

I shove off the bed, glaring hard at him. "Fine!" I yell. "Fine, I'll leave you then since that's what you want so badly—there's a free apartment down the hall and I'll work on the Kira case from there. It's my choice, and I'm going to help you whether you want me to or not! It's not your job to babysit me. You made your choices, and I made mine to stay with you through everything."

He's silent, still sitting on the edge of the bed. I feel oddly powerful in that moment, standing above him—laying down the law. "You're going to regret it." He says, looking away from me.

I deflate a little. "I'd regret leaving you." I shoot back weakly.

"You should just leave Matt. I don't need you here."

"But you want me here." I remind him, as if he might have forgotten.

"I never said that."

I'm silent for a moment. He's still trying to get rid of me, but I won't have it. "You really think this is it—this'll be the end?"

"Yes."

That one word cuts deep into my core. I look down. "Is it worth it?"

"Yes." He says again, decisive.

"Okay." I whisper. "We should get back to work then."

* * *

The world is so fake. The woman at the grocery store doesn't smile because she's genuinely glad to see you—she's smiling because her livelihood depends on that smile. No one cares about anyone else, not really. Everything's for mutual benefit. People get married because they need financial security, they want children, (because society expects you to go forth and reproduce or else you're a failure,) or they're just afraid of being lonely.

You'll always be looking out for number one, just like everyone else; because that's the kind of world we live in. Those few, few cases where someone genuinely cares…those are the people that get trampled on. Those are the people who look up at the sky and wonder why it's raining, why it's bittersweet; those are the people who smile back at the woman in the grocery store. Not because they feel obligated by common courtesy, but because they're too naïve to realize that the world's not really golden. As soon as someone rips that from their eyes, and the world shows its true colors, do they realize how empty that gold was—just a tint, an overlay, a shield from reality.

People go to the doctor because they're so sad that they're sick. Antidepressants make the world a little brighter—but what about the people who believe that the world really is good? What about the people who are happy? No one prescribes them pills to knock them back to reality. No, because those are the people that the rest of us feed off of. Their hope, however lame and fake, gives us a little. Just a little. Something to believe in, grasp to. Because that's what we do—grasp for comforts that will never be real, never be there.

Reality hurts—it's not very easy to get used to something like that.

* * *

I'm inside the apartment for a week—or I think it's been a week, anyways. (It feels like so much longer.) Is it normal to lose track of time like this? I've stopped sleeping regularly. The blinds on our windows are always closed, so I just end up working until I pass out from exhaustion, regardless of the time. I wake up when Mello throws something at me, or when I'm well-rested enough. Then I get back to work.

For breakfast I have microwave ramen. Yes, I have stooped below even the stovetop kind; it's that pathetic. Mello has become consumed with the Kira case. I'm just along for the ride, and since I refuse to be left behind, I'm forced to keep up with his breakneck pace. I'm not like Mello though. I actually have bodily needs—sleep, cigarettes, sleep—unlike him. He's starting to scare me. I've never seen his obsession get this bad before. I don't know what to do; I keep hoping he'll run out of steam and come back down to earth.

I'm passed out on the couch (what else is new?) when I feel Mello shaking me awake again. The first few days of this nonsense he'd move me to the bedroom, but lately he hasn't. He just lets me sleep, however awkward the position is that I end up in. (I couldn't move my neck all of yesterday, I slept on it funny.)

The room is dark, as it has been for the last week. The only light comes from the glow of our multiple computer screens, lighting his face with synthetic blue. His expression is blank, but I can see the circles under his eyes. I don't know of any time that he's taken a break and slept—maybe he sleeps when I do? I can't be sure, but it's doubtful.

"We're going out." He says with a frightening amount of resolve.

I start to straighten from where I was sprawled out on the couch, rubbing the back of my neck. The laptop is hot in my lap, the fan working hard to keep the overloaded machine cool. I'm so used to the sound that I barely hear it anymore. "What happened? Kira?" I ask, confused.

He shakes his head no. "Just come on." A motorcycle helmet is shoved into my hands, and I look down at the shiny black surface. What I assume to be my reflection stares back at me, a pale mess of fatigue and hopelessness. I work to stand without toppling over. I'm off balance, and yawn widely. I already have shoes on—yes, I was sleeping in boots.

He doesn't even bother to suggest that I brush my hair—or teeth—and heads for the door. I follow dutifully after him, feet dragging all the way. I pull on my helmet and climb onto the bike behind him. It went without speaking that he would be driving us, as he was the more coherent of the two of us at the moment. (That, and I have no idea where we're going.)

It's freezing outside, but I have a jacket on and that helps a little. It's nighttime, I soon realize, but the actual time is unknown to me. I let my head rest against Mello's back, wrapping my arms loosely around his torso. I doze off under the lull of flashing streetlamps, but soon wake again at the touch of cool snow against my neck. I hunch down further into my jacket, the snow lazy and fluffy as it floats down around us while we continued to zoom down the interstate.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask, having to yell in order to be heard.

"Marina del Rey." He called back, voice muffled behind his helmet.

I frown a little, knowing that he can't see it—but why would we be going to the coast? "Why would Kira be at Marina del Rey?" I ask, having to repeat myself when he didn't hear me the first time.

"He's not—at least I hope he's not." He shouts over his shoulder, steering the bike on instinct. (I think I trust him too much, because I'm not worried. The road was mostly straight anyways.) Traffic is thinning out the further we get from the heart of LA.

"Then why are we going?!" I demand, genuinely confused.

"You'll see."

I sigh, and rest my head against his back again, letting my eyes close. He doesn't object to the closeness. It feels nice; I haven't really touched him like this in the last week. It's maybe half an hour before we arrive at the coastline. It's one of those beach communities in southern California that makes me wish I was back in England. It is ridiculously expensive and crowded; I don't know why it's so desirable, other than the nice view of the water.

It looks nicer at night. The dark and snow give me a false sense of peace. Mello takes us at a leisurely pace through the streets, seeming to know his way. I hold on tight to him, not because I'm afraid of falling off, but because I know we're going to be stopping soon and I'll miss this contact. It's lame, but not having touched him intimately in a week has taken a toll on me.

The water finally comes into view—and it's packed. I'm not even kidding, cars are everywhere. The beach is filled with people in lawn chairs, cuddling under blankets and standing around coolers. It looks a lot like a party, but there's no music. (And it's the middle of the fucking night! What are these people thinking?!)

"Mel, what the hell is going on?" I finally demand.

He takes the motorcycle up on the curb, parking very illegally and he gets off the bike—and out of my grasp—much to my disapproval. I remain seated, unsure. He pulls off his helmet, resting it against his hip. He smiled a little—which shocks me to the core. I hadn't seen him smile in…well, a week, which felt like forever. "It was either this or church tomorrow. I figured you'd like the boat parade more; but we can still go to service if you'd like."

I'm quiet for a moment, and finally I look up towards the sky where the snow is falling down around us. "It's Christmas." I say softly.

"Christmas Eve." He corrects me. "Well, I guess it'll be Christmas in a few hours."

I start to stand up off the bike, pulling off my helmet. The world is comfortably gold from behind my goggles—I hadn't even taken them off while we were driving. I hadn't taken them off all week. "I completely forgot." I say honestly, a little upset over the fact. I hadn't gotten him a present.

"I forgot too." He admits with a small shrug. He seems to know what I'm thinking because he continues, "It's okay; let's have tonight be a present to one another. No Kira, no craziness, just us. Okay?"

I can't help but smile. "I'd like that."

We join the crowd on the beach, just as the parade over the water is starting. It's beautiful; sailboats and yachts are decorated with an abundance of Christmas lights and decorations, lighting up the dark ocean. They float by at a leisurely pace, framed by the lightly falling snow. Since Mello and I didn't bring a blanket, we just sit in the sand. I abandon my boots, and for a while I'm actually able to relax.

We cuddle in the chilly air. I thought it would have bothered him, such an obvious display of affection, but he doesn't seem to mind. He is probably cold too, and it did us both good to hold the other close. I watch the boats sail by on the waves. It isn't really about the parade, or even about Christmas, not for us. Tonight we're normal. Tonight we're in love, and there's no fear that tomorrow might be the end. I fall asleep in the sand, comfortable knowing that nothing has changed despite everything being different.

* * *

_AN: Oh my goodness this was a pain to write! I don't know if you noticed all those blocks of description; it was a bit different from my usual dialog-based style. This is getting harder and harder to write. (Oddly enough, however, I ended up writing the epilogue. I know, going out of order is no good. xD I just felt inspired to write it. Ugh.) I apologize for the horrendous wait! Finals ate up so much of my time, and I wasn't feeling very motivated to write this emotionally-heavy stuff. Since I'm now on break hopefully I'll get the next chapter up in a decent amount of time! (Reviews definitely help with speedy updates, as you should know by now.) This did not go through my usual editing process—I hope it's okay! I really wanted to get it posted since I made you guys wait so long._

_I would love to hear what you guys think of this chapter. It was hard for me to write, and not really my favorite. =) So write me a review! We'll be reaching the end soon! (How do_ you _think it'll all turn out? ^^)_

_This was written listening to 'Ever the Same' by Rob Thomas._


	29. 28

Mello gently shakes me awake a while later; the parade seems to be finished. People are filing off the beach, giving us a fairly wide berth. I wonder what they are thinking about us. Mello, with his leather and frightening scar. Me, with my goggles and tendency to cuddle. We are quite a pair.

It's stopped snowing, and it must be after midnight by now. I tilt my head up from where it rests against Mello's shoulder, looking into his face. I smile a little. "Merry Christmas."

Mello smiles idly in return, and starts to sit up. There's sand stuck to the back of his jacket and some in his hair. I scoot over to allow him to sit, leaning back on my arms and yawning. The only light comes from the streetlamps over on the road some fifty meters away. The boats are long gone by now. "Merry Christmas." He responds, rubbing his hair with one hand, and sand sprinkles down and back onto the beach. I wonder if I'm covered in the stuff too—I can't really tell. It's just so comfortable here; I don't really want to leave. "We should go home." He suggests, and I mumble in agreement.

The ride back is peaceful. Although I'd only slept for a short while, I feel rejuvenated. I know it has nothing to do with my physical state, but instead my mental. Mello and I are reconnected, on the same page again. I can see things being a little more manageable from now on.

When we get back, we could have gone back to work. It is the middle of the night, but that had never stopped us from being productive before. (Actually, I've found that we get the most work done when the rest of the world sleeps.) But we didn't go back to work.

I throw my helmet down onto the beaten, tired couch. It's a sad thing, that couch. I have so many memories attached to the wretched thing; I just can't stand to get rid of it. We have so much crap in this place. I swear, we could afford a gorgeous house anywhere in the world. Yet we're here. Why? Maybe we're just too lazy to go through the trouble of getting a nicer place. Maybe we feel more comfortable living under the illusion of destitution. I'm comfortable here. I think Mello is too. So I don't bother. This couch will find a lovely home in a junk yard once we're done with it—once we're done period. Because that's when we'll be giving the thing up. (I lost my fucking virginity on that couch.)

Mello had shed his jacket and helmet at some point while I was musing over our furniture. He grabs my hand, and pulls me towards the bedroom that is too rarely used these days. We're both striping before we hit the doorway—ourselves, each other. He smells like the beach, salty air, the tang of worn leather, and cheap shampoo. Underneath it all I can smell a musk that makes its home everywhere over his skin; I crave that scent. His hair is soon mused by my hands, flexing and gripping.

We haven't spoken since the beach. He'd said that the boat parade was my present for Christmas, but I know that was a lie. This is my present, because this is what I really want. He knows that—he wants it too.

I'm pleased when the first word from his mouth is my name, drawn out sensually on those addictive lips. I haven't felt so good in a long time.

I sleep better that night than I think I ever have.

* * *

I wake up alone in bed. I'm not really concerned; Mello probably got up to shower or work. (It was too good to be true to think that this change was permanent.) I don't hear anything, so he's probably on the computer out in the living room.

I relax for another few minutes before dragging myself out of bed. Today I don't have a crick in my neck—but I do hurt in other places. It's a good sort of hurt though, the kind I take pleasure in.

I wander out of the bedroom door, pausing at the sight that meets me. Mello is sitting on the armrest of the couch, arms crossed over his chest. Opposite him is none other than Halle Lidner, sitting on one of the folding chairs around the card table that serves as our dining table.

Mello raised an eyebrow. Lidner looks at me, but then quickly looks away. I thought I saw a hint of a blush on her cheeks. "Matt," Mello greets me rather blandly.

"Uh…" I respond, wanting to know what's going on but I'm a little afraid to ask.

"I never pegged you as a large man." Lidner says, covering her mouth with her hand. Is she—is she laughing? What?

"Matt," Mello's voice suggests he's bored. "Why don't you go put on some pants."

"Wha—oh." I look down at myself, realizing that I am …well, as naked as Mello left me last night.

Mello's lips turn up slightly at one corner in a smirk. "Yeah." He mused.

I turn, cheeks flushed to match my hair, and head back for the bedroom. I stop a few steps short, hidden in the hallway, standing still to listen.

"I can see your relationship is going well." I hear Lidner say.

"Just because Matt sleeps nude you assume that we're together?" Mello scoffs.

My fingers flex, and I bite my lip.

"When he left Near—well, let's just say that no one goes that far for friendship."

"We're like brothers, we grew up together. And even so, I don't have to explain myself to you. We're here for a business arrangement; can't we at least try to act professional?"

"You, professional?" I hear Lidner laugh. "Fine, fine." I can imagine her shaking those platinum blonde locks. "You think he'll do his part?"

"I know he will. But we could ask him, he's in the hallway." I curse under my breath. "Are you wearing pants yet?" Mello calls, and from his voice I can tell he's amused, but trying to hide it.

"No, just—just give me a minute." I scramble into the bedroom, my cheeks flushed crimson now. I hear Lidner laughing, but I try to block that out while I struggle to yank on my jeans and a striped shirt that I found lying on the floor. My goggles are quickly pulled over my eyes and I strap on my gun because…because it makes me feel cool, okay?

I try to strut out with some amount of dignity…which turns out not to be much. I feel those cutting amber eyes rest on me—Lidner always leaves me feeling unsettled. I can't even place what it is about her, she's just weird.

"Don't you have anything better to do than come bug us on Christmas?" I ask stiffly to break the silence, crossing my arms in a fashion similar to Mello.

"I didn't place you two as the type to celebrate the holidays. Was I mistaken?"

I say yes, just as Mello says no. Our gazes meet, and he raises an eyebrow. "What's your deal Matt? Don't tell me you're getting sentimental now."

I drop my gaze, feeling a little hurt. Luckily my goggles can hide that. I force a scoff. "Of course not. So what do you need?"

This time Lidner and Mello exchange a glance. "This was more of an…informal exchange of information. But I'll let Mello fill you in on the details." She stands, smoothing her slacks. "It was nice seeing you." She looks at me and smiles. I scowl and the double meaning, and watch her go.

Mello sighs as the door closes. "You're wearing your gun? Seriously?"

I unfasten the belt, and toss the gun and holster onto the table with a clunk. "What was that all about?!" I demand. "Why so cryptic? What do you want from me?"

"Matt, take a breath." Mello says coolly, looking away from me. "Go get your cigarettes. We need to talk."

I'm tempted to say no and demand answers again, but I really need a smoke. I would glare at him, but he's looking away and I don't want to waste my energy. So much for my morning-after-sex high.

I get my cigarettes from the coffee table in the living room, and sit down in the seat that Lidner had abandoned at our table. I keep a lighter in my pants pocket, and use that to light up. Mello is silent while I take a drag, and I wait in cool silence for him to say something.

"Lidner is going to help us—" He starts to say, but I'm quit to interrupt.

"Lidner's a phony bitch. We don't need her help." I say viciously. I like to think that we are doing just fine on our own. Why would we need _her_ help, of all people?

Mello lets out a sigh. I drag again, exhaling lung-polluting smoke. Silence.

Finally he continues, "She's very invested in taking down Kira. She's working for me and for Near. Her loyalties are to whomever can get the job done, I imagine. We still need surveillance at SPK, but she's more than willing to share inside information. We have a plan, Matt."

I can't help but feel put out. He's been plotting what to do next, not with me, but with Halle Lidner. We were supposed to be a team!

Mello must have noticed my brooding because he went on, "Lidner's position as Takada's bodyguard gives her substantial power—"

"But Takada's just Kira's spokesperson!" I interrupt irritably. I don't like this plan…even though I haven't heard the whole thing yet. Why can't Mello just work with me?

"We think that she's more than that." Mello says, leaning forward a little, like he's about to tell me some secret. Bullshit. "Lidner suspects that Takada and Kira are close, and that she may be carrying pieces of the death note."

"So?" I prompt.

"I'm getting to it." He says irritably. "So essentially, we want to trap them. But we need to be about three steps ahead…and I want your help."

I'm quiet for a moment. "Will I get to be with you?" I ask, and it sounds a lot clingier than I'd meant it to.

"No." Mello responds shortly. "Your part will be much safer."

I frown. "I don't want to be safe if you're in danger."

"Don't be an idiot." He says, and his words are biting. I cringe a little. "It's better this way. I know what I have to do, and you'll be okay afterwards." I'm silent; I don't know what to say to him. He gestures for me to come over to him where he sits on the arm of the sofa, and I do. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in close. I nuzzle my head beneath his chin, and wrap both arms around him. He knows what I'm feeling. Maybe he feels it too. "I'll miss you." He says softly.

That's when I start crying, and can't stop. My goggles are fogging up, and even though I'm quiet, he still knows. His arm tightens around me, and he says, "It'll be okay."

But I know in my heart that it won't.

* * *

There's something beautiful about knowing when you'll die. It's sobering to look at the calendar and think, 'I could just rip out the rest of the months…I won't need them.' I can't tell you exactly what's going to happen when I die, but I'm not afraid. Death isn't scary, it happens to all of us. Mortality is a wonderful thing, because you value life that much more. I don't regret one moment of my life, and I wouldn't change any of it. Good times and bad, every moment meant something and I treasure all of it.

There's always the possibility of Heaven, like Mello says, but I think that we just return to the earth. It's almost romantic; everyone in the world will go to the same place, together. It seems so peaceful. Whatever happens when I die, I just hope that Mello will be there with me. No matter where we end up, I'll be happy.

* * *

_AN: Hello everyone, it has been a while! I apologize for my long absence, I know that I promised regular updates, but as sometimes is the case, life got in the way. I have been having trouble with my health, which has made school much more time-consuming while I get better. I still need to write though, or else I feel like I might go crazy! This chapter was difficult to write, and as you may have sensed, we have neared the end. The next (and final!) chapter will be something different. =) Go ahead, get excited! It won't be too long until I post it, I already have the chapter in the beginning stages!_

_I cannot thank you all enough. I have reached 300 reviews! This is truly an amazing feat, and it brings me so much joy to know that people have enjoyed the story so far. It really inspires me to write. Thank you all for your support!_

_Since we are coming to the end, please let me know in your review if you'd like to see more Matt x Mello stories from me in the future. =) It has been quite a ride! You'll see me again soon in the next chapter!_


	30. Epilogue: 29

Dear Matt,

First, I'd like to point out that if you are not Matt (that being the person it's addressed to up there, if you're fucking blind,) you'd best stop reading or I'll haunt your ass until you're afraid to turn off the lights. Near, I swear, if you're going through all our shit and found this, put the damn letter down. Don't think death can stop me from kicking your skinny white ass. If you're Matt's landlord, well, we paid rent, didn't we? You can keep the deposit. But seriously, if anyone else reads this—just don't, okay? This is for Matt. God, people can be such idiots sometimes. You'd think that no one would be interested in our personal shit, but here they are, pawing through it all just because I happened to kick the bucket.

Okay, Matt. I really hope you're reading this, but if you're not, maybe I'll be seeing you. I really hope you're reading this. When I think of you…I just think of that kid back at Wammy's. God Matt, what were you thinking, getting involved in all this shit with me? You're a fucking genius! Use your brains for _once_. But…I guess I'm kind of glad that you don't listen to your head all the time. That would make two of us then, and what fun would that be? Someone had to follow their heart, and I'm sorry as hell that that had to be you. You deserve so much better than this. I hope that after all this is done, you'll move out of this dump and get a real house. You know, one of those domestic suburb places where they have barbeques and other shit on weekends. No, seriously. Do you really think I'd joke about the _suburbs_? You deserve it, after all this.

Now, I know what you're thinking. (Fuck yes telepathy works in the afterlife.) It's going to be all doom and gloom for a while. So what, I'm dead? Big surprise there, we all knew it was coming eventually. I'm not afraid of dying Matt. You shouldn't be afraid of me dying either. I made my choices; I'm just sorry they had to affect you too. I'm glad I didn't have to grow up to be old. That would have sucked, and you know it. I would have made a pretty crappy old person—I'd be the one shooting the pigeons in the park, not feeding them. Yeah, you just smiled. Don't try to pretend you didn't…I guess you're probably crying too. That's okay. I never really told you, but it's okay to be upset. If it was me there, reading this sappy shit, I'd probably get all emotional too. (But I most definitely would not cry. But it's okay if _you_ do. Just saying.)

So I'm not going to bore you with some deep monologue about life and death, sadness and mourning, no. You figure out what you want to do next. I hope you live your life the way that it should have been lived all along, Matty. I just want you to be happy. That's what I always wanted; you were just too much of a stubborn bastard to do as I said. I guess that you were happy with me. I know that I was happy with you. I'm not going to lie, and say that I hope you move on. No, seriously, don't. Remember me all the time; just don't be all sad and weepy about it. Remember the good stuff. I really don't want you going and finding someone else though. You're pretty much a shut-in anyways, so I don't know how you'd meet somebody, but if by some miracle you did, God would probably strike them down because it would be so fucking _wrong_ for you should be with anyone but me. I have first dibs. Your ass, and everything attached to it, will now and forever belong to me. I'm not being selfish; I'm just stating the facts here so there's no confusion. (I hate it when people leave cryptic final words—so I'm going to make it really easy on you and just spell everything out loud and clear.)

This seems like the ideal spot to get all nostalgic and prattle on about the 'good ole days.' Pft, what the hell? We didn't have any of those. I mean, between Near screwing us over and Kira playing grim reaper, we didn't really live a lot, did we? I'd say I'm sorry but it's not _my_ fault. What'd you expect, for me to get all sentimental on you? Even though I'm going to be dead in a few hours, I'm not _that_ far gone. We were lucky though, having one another all this time. I never would have gotten this far without you Matty. While you're pretty screwed up because of me, I'm glad that you stuck around. I honestly needed you, and not just for the techy stuff. You were the only one that kept me grounded. I…shit, my ink is smudging. Hold on, maybe I need a new pen. What the hell, we have all this crap lying around and no pens?! God, what a pain. So I reread that, and it sounds so fucking stupid. I don't really have time to rewrite all this, so just ignore all of that. (I'm practicing writing with my left hand, that's why it's kind of shaky. Shut up, I _am_.)

Why the hell do my final written words have to make me sound like a pussy? I should just scrap this whole thing, but I want you to have _something_ from me when you get back today. Because you will get back Matt. I really, really hope you get back okay. I love you, you know. I don't say it a lot, but I do. I know that you know, but I just thought I'd remind you. You were there, for everything. My life was so much better because of you, and I'm really glad that we got to be together, even if only for a little while.

We're kind of like shooting stars, you know? Super bright, and we light up the sky. People are in awe of us. Then we die out, before half the world has enjoyed what we have to offer. I just thought of that, and it sounded like something you'd appreciate. I know you like sappy shit sometimes. So stay bright a little while longer, please? For me. I love you Matty, don't ever forget it.

-M

P.S. Let Near know I won. But he already knew that. I had you all along.

* * *

_AN: So it's finally over. I didn't want this to end, because writing Tinted Gold has been such a wonderful experience. I have met so many nice people, and I feel as though my writing has genuinely improved. This started as a fleeting idea, and turned into something huge. I never imagined that this story would become so popular. It makes me so happy to know that so many people have read an enjoyed it! Whether you reviewed or not, I truly appreciate you. I hope that this will only be the beginning. Matt and Mello fans are some of the friendliest people I know, and I feel so lucky to be able to add my own spin to their universe. If you would like to see more of these two, please add me to your author alert. New stories will be heading your way! Thank you all so much, I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have!_


	31. Endings: 30

_AN: When I concluded Tinted Gold late last year I was very happy with the result. I thought that I had left it open ended, so you could finish the story however you wanted. (I joked that I liked to imagine they came back to the apartment, found Mello's note together and laughed.) The general consensus, however, seemed to be people thinking that they had died. While that was a definite possibility, I never said that definitively. Recently Living in a Fantasy (an amazing Matt/Mello author who you should check out) and I bribed one another with a writing exchange of sorts. This is my part of the bargain, so you can thank her for this impromptu continuation. =) She requested a happy ending for Matt and Mello. If you are content with how Tinted Gold ended, you don't need to read on. For those of you who always wanted them to live happily ever after (because certainly the deserve it,) I hope this does them justice. Please enjoy._

* * *

I stumble through the door, leaving it open behind me. I lean down slowly, so slowly, and start to unfasten my boots. The laces slip through my trembling fingers, but I manage to yank off either of the boots, leaving my feet in only socks. I'd just limped four blocks—I was suddenly thankful for our apartment's location. If we'd been in a better part of town, I wouldn't have been close enough to walk. Or run. (Which I had managed with some effort.)

I shuffle over to the TV, pressing the on button with my thumb and sinking down to the floor just a foot in front of it. The television sits on a short table pressed against the wall so I have to tilt my head up a little to watch the images flashing across the screen. I hear a short laugh come from my lips and the sound startles me. The TV is on the Food Network channel; Mello made lasagna last night for dinner. Mello never cooks, but he had last night. I press my pointer finger against the down button and slowly click through the channels. I don't know why I didn't just pick up the remote. I find the local news and stop, sitting at strict attention, my back rigid.

A woman reporter stands in a distance in front of a burning building. "The church here in Nagano has been abandoned for almost forty years and there were plans to refurbish the building as a historical landmark. The fire started late this afternoon and firefighters are still struggling to put out the flames. It has been contained to this area and we expect no damage to come to buildings in this area. Fire chief Fuyu made a statement earlier today saying, and I quote, 'We expect the fire is an act of arson and the—"

I press the mute button, not wanting to hear anymore. I rest my head down in my hands, silent for a long while. I'm blinking rapidly behind my goggles when I raise my head again. I have a headache. I fumble for my cigarettes and lighter, and soon I'm dragging on my addiction. It should make me feel better but it doesn't. I draw my knees up to my chest, rocking gently there on the floor in front of the television.

I still remember Mello's last minute instructions. "If you're being pursued," He'd said, "Get out of the car and run. Run like hell." My poor Camaro. I'd skidded to a stop right in the middle of an intersection—in the middle of a red light—and it only took a second before a car hit me on the passenger side. I guess I was lucky for small favors. That had efficiently blocked the intersection, and I jumped out of my car and ran. Those fanatics who'd been following me either hit my poor car or were forced to stop. I ran for several blocks before slowing to a walk. My right leg is kind of screwed up, I think my knee banged into the underside of the dashboard in the initial collision. My face is probably all scratched up from the broken glass, but it doesn't matter.

Mello had gone over the plan with me at least twice, maybe three times. I don't really remember. But I do specifically remember Nagano. You know, the place that's on fire. Well, not _all _of Nagano, just the church Mello had scoped out. I lift up my goggles and put them on my forehead, hair mussed by the strap. I rub my eyes with my fist, dragging on my quickly disappearing cigarette.

I manage to gather my legs beneath me and get to my feet, the cigarette dangling listlessly between my lips. I wonder if there is any lasagna left over in the kitchen. I don't know why I wonder, but Mello made it and I have my heart set on having some. Just as I'm heading for the fridge a folded paper catches my eye. My name is scrawled on the letter, and with shaking hands I unfold it. As I read silent tears fill my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. As I come to end a soft sob slips from my lips, and I cover my mouth with one hand. It can't be over. I can't live without him, I won't.

Somehow I make it to the bedroom, collapsing on the bed. I drop my cigarette in the dish on the bedside table. A part of me wants to just set the bed on fire, but I'm too mentally and physically exhausted to do that just yet. I draw my knees up in the fetal position, tears leaking from my eyes and soaking into the pillow. It smells like Mello. I cry myself into a dreamless sleep, Mello's letter still clutched in my hand.

* * *

I come to slow awareness, feeling the faint touch of lips against my forehead, either of my eyelids, then that light touch against my lips. A soft sigh escapes me, and I feel a shift on the bed. Those chapped lips touch mine again, firmer this time, and I taste minty toothpaste, soot and _Mello_.

My eyes flutter open on their own accord and my breath lodges in my throat. Cerulean eyes stare back down at me. "Mello," I say hoarsely.

He reaches up, pulling my goggles off of my forehead and tossing them to the floor. He smiled a little, and such a simple expression on his face makes my heart skip a beat. "Matt." He responds, pressing our lips together again.

Suddenly my fingers are fisting tightly into his hair, fresh tears filling my eyes. I'm laughing against his lips; my heart feels whole again. He rolls us over so I'm situated on his chest and I kiss along his jawline, then his neck and shoulder and anywhere I can reach.

"I'm sorry I scared you like that." He whispers, but I'm barely paying attention to his words. All I hear is his voice again, God how I love that voice.

"You're here," I murmur, snuggling down into him when I feel a pair of arms snake around my waist and pull me in close. "How are you here?" It doesn't even matter, because he's here and it's over, but a part of me still wants to know.

Mello chuckles softly. He leans over—although I still stay on him—and I watch as he pulls open the bedside drawer and withdraws a piece of paper. He hands it to me, and leaning to one side I slowly unfold it. I just stare down in shock, feeling warmth spread through my chest. "You—" I start to say around the lump in my throat, blinking back fresh tears. "You changed your name." I whisper. "That-that worked?"

Mello chuckled softly. "I had my doubts as well. But I thought it couldn't hurt to die Mihael Jeevas."

Then I'm laughing again, kissing him again and again. He's laughing too, and it's the most wonderful sound in the world. I can't even explain the joy I'm feeling.

"Let's leave." Mello says suddenly, a smile on his lips. For the first time in a while he looks totally relaxed and happy. "Let's go somewhere—anywhere. Just get up and go, what do you say?"

All I can do is smile in return. "I'll go anywhere with you."

So I did, and left the world of Kira behind. A world without Kira doesn't need to be tinted with gold; it's full of Mello, and that's far better than anything my goggles can give me.

* * *

_AN (2): I hope you've enjoyed this little dose of fluff, and don't mind that I tacked it onto the end of TG. Please review letting me know what you think. =) This second author's note is because I wanted to mention a new Matt/Mello story I'll be starting within the next few days. It will be an AU entitled 'For Hire'. Please keep a look out, and add me to your author alert if you haven't already! Thanks for being so awesome! Once again I just have to say that Tinted Gold has been an amazing experience. I'm so lucky to have met so many great people! Thank you again for reading and reviewing!_


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